We took seats in the room while Motherspaw spoke with his man.

"Right," he said, "Williams will be back with drinks. Please feel free to smoke, gentlemen."

"Very good, Colonel," said Holmes, "Now where is my pipe?" He began ratting about in his pockets for the missing pipe. Neither Motherspaw nor I thought to mention that his cherry wood was in his mouth, unlit.

"Now, as to the origin of those stick figures, Colonel," said Holmes, still searching. "These dark beginnings are still rather dim. How do you explain them?

"Why, I have no idea. That's why I sought you out. You are the expert on singlestick and other little stick figures…" My friend shot me a dreadful look and glanced at my notebook.

"You've done it again, Watson"

"Done it? Done what?" I cried, nearly jumping to my feet. I felt myself rising from the floor and immediately grasped the arm of the chair.

"Written another of my cases into a sensational story… missing all the important information about the case in a appalling attempt to entertain your readers and capitalize on my good name… and make money, too. For shame!" I had only the slightest notion about the case to which he was referring.

"But, Holmes… It's only 1892. If you are concerned about "The Adventure of the Dancing Men", it does not take place until 1898 and it isn't published until 1903." I was suddenly thunderstruck. "Why… It's miraculous, Holmes," I cried, "You've done it at the chemistry table… you've built a time machine…" I resolved to look at the table for a new brass instrument. Our guest jumped to his feet and caromed about the room until Holmes cracked him neatly into his chair with his stick.

"Nonsense, Watson. I mean the latest Strand, which contains the enormously romanticized account you have entitled "The Adventure of the Speckled Band". You have not done yourself proud, Watson." He pondered for a moment, "And, no, I've not invented the time machine… I pray you haven't been talking to that fellow author friend of yours, Herbert Wells… he has such a wild imagination and is such a social reformer, you know… but I must ask you, my dear fellow, what is this "Adventure of the Dancing Men?"

At that moment our guest ejaculated, "Mr. Holmes… Dr. Watson… What about my little stick figures?" Drawn back to the business at hand, I looked to my friend for a continuation of his inquiry.

Holmes stood before us by the Colonel's mantel with his unlit pipe still in his mouth, continuing to dig in his coat pockets for his "missing" pipe. Out of the pocket in short order came an immense yellow gourd pipe, a cigarette case, 3 cigars (still in the coalscuttle), that oily old clay (which disintegrated into a mass of blackish goop in his hand), the Persian slipper, two packages of cigarettes, Smith (the tobacconist from Whitehall, who promptly kicked my friend just below the knee and scurried out the door muttering under his breath about "eccentric consulting detectives"), the bejeweled snuff box, an irate Mrs. Hudson (who struck a match to light his old cherry wood for him and dropped a prim and more than a little agitated curtsy before leaving to return to Baker Street) and finally MY pipe (about which I could not remain silent: "I say, Holmes… I'll have my pipe back, there!" and to which he replied, "My dear fellow, kindly remember the cat coughing in the night." I replied, "Why, there was no cat coughing in the night… did you step on a hairball?" And to which he replied, "Precisely and no.", leaving me totally in the dark about the whole thing and trying to recall telltale signs of the leavings of a cat and resolving to call for the bull pup in case it was not a hairball).

Holmes drew a deep draught upon his old cherry wood and allowed the blue smoke to swirl about his head. We waited in awe as the great detective stood there, looking for all the world like a fog-bound Walter Paget… completely swallowed up by the fumes from his tobacco habit. He steeled himself for his next remark and opened his mouth to speak. Upon his intake of breath (and the ensuing hacking, gagging and choking, upon which both I and our guest jumped to our feet and caromed about the room in vain attempts to slap him upon the back) came these fell words…"

"Greenhough Smith, Paget and Doyle"

"WHAT?" we both cried at once. The Colonel was examining a stick figure on his hand when he flew by Holmes and took the knife from Holmes' hand. He waved it about, apparently trying to stick it into anything handy to stop his infernal bouncing. Holmes was missed by only scant inches and I was thankful Motherspaw did not come near me. I was able to come to a stop at the ceiling and to change my random rebounds to fixed bouncing. I alternately floated down to my seat and sprung up to the ceiling for some time afterward.

"Precisely." Said Holmes, "My dear Colonel, the message you received…?"

"I burned it, Mr. Holmes," said he, bouncing off the far wall and aiming his hindquarters for his seat, hitting it dead center. I settled back to my chair from the ceiling and wrapped one leg around it to anchor myself. "I made a copy, however…"

"Read it, Watson, if you would be so kind…" The copy read as follows:

"Hutsut ralson on the rillara and the brallah brallah sue et. Hutsut ralson on the rillara and the brallah sue et" "rights langur"

"Why, Holmes. It's in code, a foreign language, legalese, names… "ralson"… could be Ralston (you know, the dog food people); "et"… that's latin; "sue"; "rights"… surely it's about a lawsuit… Pah! I can't make it out"

"Neither could I, and it made me so frustrated I burned it," said our guest, struggling to keep a stick figure from stabbing him in the calf.

"Ah," said the great detective, taking out his pen and scribbling a quick note on a sheet of paper upon a sideboard, "but I can. Kindly see to it that this is left pinned to your nightshirt tonight, my dear Colonel." With a squeaking stick figure in one hand and the note in the other, our guest read the following:

"Down in the meadow in uh iddybiddypoo fammfeee ittulfity and a mutterfity too."

"But it's more of the same gibberish, Mr. Holmes," cried Motherspaw, jumping to his feet and about to carom about the great hall, again. My friend pressed him into his seat by tossing the tobacco paraphernalia at him. He was too late to stop me from springing to the ceiling.

"Exactly, Colonel," Holmes said, "Exactly."