staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley
were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the
smell of creasote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst
simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

Chapter VIII

The Baker Street Irregulars

"What now?" I asked. "Toby has lost his character for infallibility."

"He acted according to his lights," said Holmes, lifting him down from
the barrel and walking him out of the timber-yard. "If you consider
how much creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no great
wonder that our trail should have been crossed. It is much used now,
especially for the seasoning of wood. Poor Toby is not to blame."

"We must get on the main scent again, I suppose."

"Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to go. Evidently what
puzzled the dog at the corner of Knight's Place was that there were two
different trails running in opposite directions. We took the wrong one.
It only remains to follow the other."

There was no difficulty about this. On leading Toby to the place where
he had committed his fault, he cast about in a wide circle and finally
dashed off in a fresh direction.

"We must take care that he does not now bring us to the place where the
creasote-barrel came from," I observed.

"I had thought of that. But you notice that he keeps on the pavement,
whereas the barrel passed down the roadway. No, we are on the true
scent now."

It tended down towards the river-side, running through Belmont Place
and Prince's Street. At the end of Broad Street it ran right down to
the water's edge, where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led us to
the very edge of this, and there stood whining, looking out on the dark
current beyond.

"We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here."
Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the
edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he
sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.

Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden
placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" was
printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by
the hour or day." A second inscription above the door informed us that
a steam launch was kept,--a statement which was confirmed by a great
pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and
hi