The Prodigal
The Prodigal is a sherlockian pastiche written by P. G. Wodehouse published in Punch on 23 september 1903.
The story was published anonymously but credited to Wodehouse in the Index to Vol. 125 of Punch.
The Prodigal
[It is rumoured that Sherlock Holmes, when he reappears, will figure in a series of stories of American origin.]
I met him in the Strand. It was really the most extraordinary likeness. Had I not known that he lay at the bottom of a dem'd moist unpleasant waterfall, I should have said that it was Sherlock Holmes himself who stood before me. I had almost made up my mind to speak to him, when he spoke to me.
"Pardon me, stranger," he said, "can you tell where I get a car for Victoria?"
I told him.
"Do you know," I said, "You are astonishingly like an old friend of mine. A Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"My name," he said coolly.
I staggered back, nearly upsetting a policeman. Then I seized him by the arm, dragged him into an A.B.C. shop, and sat him down at a table.
"You are Sherlock Holmes!" I cried.
"Correct. Sherlock P. Holmes of Neh Yark City, U.S.A. That's me every time, I guess."
"Holmes!" I clutched him fervently to my bosom. "Don't you remember me? You must remember me."
"Name of——?" he queried.
"Watson. Dr. Watson."
"Wal, darn my skin if I didn't surmise I'd seen you before somewhere. Watson! Crimes, so it is. Oh, this is slick. Yes, Sir. This is my shout. Liquor up at my ex-pense, if you please. What's your poison?"
I said I would have a small milk.
"Why, the last I saw of you, Holmes——" I began.
"Guess you didn't see the last of me, sirree."
"But you did fall down the waterfall?"
"Why, yes."
"Then how did you escape?"
"Why, I fell over with Moriarty. The cuss was weightier than me some, so he fell underneath. If two humans fall over a precipice, I calkilate it's the one with the most avoir-du-pois that falls underneath. Conse-quently I was only considerable shaken, while Moriarty handed in his checks."
"Then you weren't killed?"
"My dear Watson, how——? No. Guess I sur-vived. But, say, how are all the old folks at home? How's Sir Henry Baskerville?"
"Very well. He has introduced base-ball into the West Country."
"And the hound? Ah, but I remember, we shot him."
"No. He wasn't really dead. He recovered, turned over a new leaf, and is now doing capitally out Battersea way."
Just then a look of anxiety passed over my friend's face. I asked the reason.
"It's like this," he said; "I've been in the U-nited States so long now, tracking down the toughs there, that I reckon I've ac-quired the Amurrican accent some. Say, do you think the public will object?"
"Holmes," I said, "it wouldn't matter if you talked Czech or Chinese. You've come back. That's all we care about."
"It's a perfect cinch," said Holmes, with a happy smile.
- Acknowlegments: Madame Eulalie's Rare Plums
