September 25, 1900: Dr Mortimer called at 221B. [HOUN]
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, grey eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air of peering benevolence.
September 25, 1900: Sir Henry Baskerville arrived at Waterloo Station. [HOUN]
The only other kinsman whom we have been able to trace was Rodger Baskerville, the youngest of three brothers of whom poor Sir Charles was the elder. The second brother, who died young, is the father of this lad Henry. The third, Rodger, was the black sheep of the family. He came of the old masterful Baskerville strain, and was the very image, they tell me, of the family picture of old Hugo. He made England too hot to hold him, fled to Central America, and died there in 1876 of yellow fever. Henry is the last of the Baskervilles. In one hour and five minutes I meet him at Waterloo Station. I have had a wire that he arrived at Southampton this morning.
Here is a limerick from my limerick corner. The limerick is by our own Roxie. A very talented limerick creator. HOUN
Given that this one is a long story, novella, or a short novel (take your pick), this week’s limerick is a double:
Someone? S killing at Baskerville, and fast.
Will the current heir end up the last?
His chances were poor:
The hound howled on the moor.
Then Holmes saw that picture from the past.
The experience wasn’t much fun,
And the end bad for ?most everyone.
Moral: Don’t walk at night
When a dog might shine bright
Or the way through the swamps been undone.
Esmerelda