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 my 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 vagabone," 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 the bag, an' 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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