nds upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world
made up of just such a jumble of worn-out, forgotten and
good-for-nothing trash as he was, yet they live in fair repute, and
never see themselves for what they are. And why should my poor puppet
be the only one to know himself and perish for it?"

While thus muttering the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and
held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust it
into her own mouth or Feathertop's.

"Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give him another
chance, and send him forth again to-morrow. But no! His feelings are
too tender--his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much heart
to bustle for his own advantage in such an empty and heartless world.
Well, well! I'll make a scarecrow of him, after all. 'Tis an innocent
and useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and if each of his
human brethren had as fit a one, 'twould be the better for mankind. And
as for his pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he."

So saying, Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips.

"Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my
pipe!"

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

The Red-Headed League

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,[203-1] one day in the
autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very
stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled
me abruptly into the room, and closed the door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he
said, cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick, little, questioning glance from his small,
fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his arm-chair and putting
his finger-tips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, a