Judge — January 9, 1926 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Crystal-Gazer who couldn't see everything. The Amazing Adventures of Sherlock Lupin A Tragedy of the Comic Weeklies Gtentock Lurr blushed. No ** wonder. He had just finished reading a story in one of the confes- sion magazines. It was easy to see, therefore, that the great detective was easily shocked and had never seen a Broadway revue. He was ruminating over the asterisks, at which point the story abruptly ended, when the telephone bell rang. He made no move to pick up the re- ceiver. Sherlock never bothered with wrong numbers. If it wasn’t he would have been very much sur- prised. So would the author since it is not his intention to have Sher- lock answer the telephone. At this juncture there came a knock at the door. The g) crime detector di- vined it was a client. He had paid off the last collector less than ten min- utes ago. The knock was repeated. “Let him knock,” mused Sherlock, half to himself and half to his better half who was not then present. “Every knock’s a boost—in price.” Sherlock eventually admitted a nervous man into his den, but not until he had shaved, dressed, eaten his dinner and seen a mo The visitor looked dejected enough to have been a successful humorist. “You're a batter and egg man from Darien, Conn.,” joked Sherlock. “No, indeed,” reproached the other. “I'ma milkman from Water- bury.” There ensued an hour's silence. “You're not very talkative, are yor aid the stranger. “Not very,” rejoined Sherlock, “I never am when I have a client in the office. You see, I charge by the hour.” Whereupon he commenced pacing up and down the full length of the room, thrusting his hands wildly in the air. “You're not feeling ill?” a ee “T wonder where I can get a ham sandwich, piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee?” “No, no,” snorted the crime in- vestigator, “I always do my daily dozen when tors are here. It intrigues them and excites their curiosity. Er, by the way, when did you find your wife murdered, Mr. Smith?” The stranger almost fell into a faint, but upon investigation Mr. Lupin found he in reality only had fallen into a nice, soft plush chair. “Why, why,” gulped the stranger, as he drank more than his share of Sherlock’s whisky, “how did you guess my wife’s been murdered? And furthermore, how did you know my name was Smith?” The detective laughed, one of those broad grins that prompted the poet to write “laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you've bought real estate in Florida.” “I could tell you were a Smith from your cough,” Sherlock ex- plained. “All Smiths are alike. They cough, and if they don’t, they ought to.” “But I haven’t coughed in years,” protested the other, “yet I'm a Smith.” “Four out of five do,” intoned the sleuth gravely. “However, don't let this alarm you. I'll have you coughing up when I present my bill. But to get back to the murder.” (Continued on page 19) ~comicbooks.com