In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case.
Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end
and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew
Sholto.
"They are hellish things," said he. "Look out that you don't
prick yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are
that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me
finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a
Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge,
Watson?"
"Certainly," I answered.
"Your leg will stand it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!"
He pushed the creasote handkerchief under the dog's nose, while
the creature stood with its fluffy legs separated, and with a
most comical cock to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the
bouquet of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief
to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and
led him to the foot of the water-barrel. The creature instantly
broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his
nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon
the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the
top of our speed.
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