The Hound of the Baskervilles

by A. Conan Doyle




Chapter 1
Mr. Sherlock Holmes



Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings,
save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night,
was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug
and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the
night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed,
of the sort which is known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the
head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. "To James
Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved
upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the
old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry--dignified, solid,
and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no
sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in