Dr. Conan Doyle tells an amusing story of his first experience on arriving at Portsmouth some years ago. The doctor, who has now forsaken physic for fiction, went to the southern port with the intention of practising the healing art in the Southsea district, and, in his first voyage of discovery round the town, came upon a crowd greatly interested in the brutal ill-treatment of a woman by her natural protector, who appeared to be a travelling tinker. Dr. Doyle gallantly intervened, and the tinker's wrath was straight-way diverted. The man went at once for the doctor-author, who had to "assume the defensive." It so happened, however, that the tinker collided with a British tar, who immediately rataliated with heavy interest. This second diversion suggested to Dr. Doyle that, having rescued the woman, it was time to disappear.
"I am an intermittent golfer, getting very violent attacks at regular intervals," says Dr. Conan Doyle"It usually takes me about two months to convince myself that I shall ever be any good, and then I give it up until a fresh burst of energy gets me trying once more. I played in Egypt until they told me that excavators had to pay a special tax. I inaugurated a private course in Vermont also, and the Yankee farmers asked us what we were boring for."
"An old novelist," says Sir Conan Doyle, "is as rare an object as an old worker in white lead. The authors' trade ought to be scheduled amongst the dangerous trades."
