Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses in
the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at
No. 3 before I could make any impression. At last, however,
there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face
looked out at the upper window.
"Go on, you drunken vagabond," said the face. "If you kick
up any more row, I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three
dogs upon you."
"If you'll let one out, it's just what I have come for," said I.
"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a
wiper in this bag, and I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook
it!"
"But I want a dog," I cried.
"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand
clear, for when I say 'three,' down goes the wiper."
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes " I began; but the words had a most
magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and
within a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman
was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy
neck, and blue-tinted glasses.
"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," said he.
"Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah,
naughty, naughty; would you take a nip at the gentleman?" This
to a stoat which thrust its wicked head and red eyes between the
bars of its cage.
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