À la Sherlock Holmes

"À la Sherlock Holmes" by Charles Battell Loomis is a light-hearted mystery novel that parodies the classic detective genre established by Arthur Conan Doyle. The story features a clever detective who employs wit and unconventional methods to solve a series of intriguing cases. With humorous twists and playful dialogue, Loomis captures the essence of detective fiction while poking fun at its conventions. The book blends suspense and comedy, appealing to fans of both mystery and satire.

• Short story

								
Jones and I recently had occasion to take a drive of four or five
miles in upper Connecticut. We were met at the station by Farmer
Phelps, who soon had us snugly wrapped in robes and speeding over
the frozen highway in a sleigh. It was bitter cold weather--the
thermometer reading 3° above zero. We had come up from Philadelphia,
and to us such extreme cold was a novelty, which is all we could say
for it.

As we rode along, Jones fell to talking about Conan Doyle’s detective
stories, of which we were both great admirers--the more so as Doyle
has declared Philadelphia to be the greatest American city. It turned
out that Mr. Phelps was familiar with the “‘Meemoirs’ of Sherlock
Holmes,” and he thought there was some “pretty slick reasonin’” in
it. “My girl,” said he, “got the book out er the library an’ read it
aout laoud to my woman an’ me. But of course this Doyle had it all
cut an’ dried afore he writ it. He worked backwards an’ kivered up
his tracks, an’ then started afresh, an’ it seems more wonderful to
the reader than it reely is.”

“I don’t know,” said Jones; “I’ve done a little in the observation
line since I began to read him, and it’s astonishing how much a man
can learn from inanimate objects, if he uses his eyes and his brain
to good purpose. I rarely make a mistake.”

Just then we drove past an outbuilding. The door of it was shut. In
front of it, in a straight row and equidistant from each other, lay
seven cakes of ice, thawed out of a water-pan.

“There,” said Jones; “what do we gather from those seven cakes of ice
and that closed door?”

I gave it up.

Mr. Phelps said nothing.

Jones waited impressively a moment, and then said quite glibly: “The
man who lives there keeps a flock of twelve hens--not Leghorns, but
probably Plymouth Rocks or some Asiatic variety. He attends to them
himself, and has good success with them, although this is the seventh
day of extremely cold weather.”

I gazed at him in admiration.

Mr. Phelps said nothing.

“How do you make it all out, Jones?” said I.

“Well, those cakes of ice were evidently formed in a hens’
drinking-pan. They are solid. The water froze a little all day long,
and froze solid in the night. It was thawed out in the morning and
left lying there, and the pan was refilled. There are seven cakes of
ice; therefore there has been a week of very cold weather. They are
side by side: from this we gather that it was a methodical man who
attended to them; evidently no hireling, but the goodman himself.
Methodical in little things, methodical in greater ones; and method
spells success with hens. The thickness of the ice also proves that
comparatively little water was drunk; consequently he keeps a small
flock. Twelve is the model number among advanced poultrymen, and
he is evidently one. Then, the clearness of the ice shows that the
hens are not excitable Leghorns, but fowl of a more sluggish kind,
although whether Plymouth Rocks or Brahmas or Langshans, I can’t say.
Leghorns are so wild that they are apt to stampede through the water
and roil it. The closed door shows he has the good sense to keep them
shut up in cold weather.

“To sum up, then, this wide-awake poultryman has had wonderful
success, in spite of a week of exceptionally cold weather, from his
flock of a dozen hens of some large breed. How’s that, Mr. Phelps?
Isn’t it almost equal to Doyle?”

“Yes; but not accordin’ to Hoyle, ez ye might say,” said he. “Your
reasonin’ is good, but it ain’t quite borne aout by the fac’s.
In the fust place, this is the fust reel cold day we’ve hed this
winter. Secon’ly, they ain’t no boss to the place, fer she’s a woman.
Thirdly, my haouse is the nex’ one to this, an’ my boy an’ hers hez
be’n makin’ those ice-cakes fer fun in some old cream-pans. Don’t
take long to freeze solid in this weather. An’, las’ly, it ain’t a
hen-haouse, but an ice-haouse.”

The sun rode with unusual quietness through the heavens. We heard no
song of bird. The winds were whist. All nature was silent.

So was Jones.
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