The Uncollected Cases of Solar Pons

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"A beautiful day, Parker!”

"Indeed, Pons!"

My friend Solar Pons and I were strolling down Regent Street, and the sunlight sparkling on the glittering displays in the elegant windows of the shops had prompted my companion's apposite remark. It was indeed a perfect day in early June, and as it was my locum's turn to take my rounds and evening surgery, I had readily agreed to a morning stroll from our lodgings at 7B Praed Street.

"A never-ending source of fascination; the study of mankind in the raw, Parker."

"Perfectly true, Pons."

"For example, take that gentleman staggering toward us on the opposite pavement. What do you make of him?"

I frowned across the road toward the source of Pons' interest.

"Strange indeed, Pons."

"Is it not, Parker. Let us just have a small display of that ratiocinative power you have been cultivating of late."

"You do me too much honor, Pons."

I frowned again at the man who was dancing about in such an extraordinary manner. He was a little, peppery, red-faced man in formal clothes and with a silk cravat. He carried a stick and from the opening and closing movements of his mouth, he appeared to be muttering imprecations of some sort. He made savage slashing gestures in the air with his stick, and his whole manner was so strange and eccentric that the passers-by on his side of the street were giving him a wide berth.

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