Hound of the Baskervilles, The (Pulp! the Classics) - Softcover

Arthur Conan Doyle

 
9781843441229: Hound of the Baskervilles, The (Pulp! the Classics)

Synopsis

A desolate moor, a diabolical dog in need of an ASBO and some inbred locals; Sherlock Holmes is really up against it. With the help of his trusty sidekick Dr. Watson, Holmes pieces together a mystery that has captured the imagination of readers across the decades. All whilst practising a serious coffee and cocaine habit.

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About the Authors

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1859 - 1930, was a Scottish physician and writer, most noted for his stories about the detective Sherlock Holmes, generally considered a milestone in the field of crime fiction. He was a prolific writer whose other works include science fiction stories, plays, romances, poetry, non-fiction and historical novels.



David Mann is an artist and illustrator who studied illustration at the Cambridge School of Art. He has previously illustrated for both publishers and corporate clients. He lives in Hertfordshire.

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The Hound of the Baskervilles

By Arthur Conan Doyle

Oldcastle Books

Copyright © 2013 Arthur Conan Doyle
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84344-122-9

Contents

1 Mr Sherlock Holmes,
2 The Curse of the Baskervilles,
3 The Problem,
4 Sir Henry Baskerville,
5 Three Broken Threads,
6 Baskerville Hall,
7 The Stapletons of Merripit House,
8 First Report of Dr Watson,
9 The Light upon the Moor,
10 Extract from the Diary of Dr Watson,
11 The Man on the Tor,
12 Death on the Moor,
13 Fixing the Nets,
14 The Hound of the Baskervilles,
15 A Retrospection,
About Us,
Copyright,


CHAPTER 1

MR SHERLOCK HOLMES


Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is known as a 'Penang lawyer.' Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch across. 'To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,' was engraved upon it, with the date '1884.' It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family practitioner used to carry – dignified, solid, and reassuring.

'Well, Watson, what do you make of it?'

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

'How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.'

'I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me,' said he. 'But, tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it.'

'I think,' said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, 'that Dr Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know him give him this mark of their appreciation.'

'Good!' said Holmes. 'Excellent!'

'I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot.'

'Why so?'

'Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one, has been so knocked about that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it.'

'Perfectly sound!' said Holmes.

'And then again, there is the "friends of the C.C.H." I should guess that to be the Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return.'

'Really, Watson, you excel yourself,' said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. 'I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt.'

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think that I had so far mast

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