I paused in reaching for a chutney to consider the question carefully, determined to be as analytical in my attention to the matter as Homes, himself, would have been. “Why,” I said at last, “it sounds rather onerous. Slavery has been abolished for some years now, and the giving of children, particularly as gifts, strikes me as being quite reprehensible, to say the least.”
“I should tend to agree,” said he, and continued to read further in the newspaper article that had claimed his attention. As I watched I could see the frown deepen upon his saturnine features. “Watney!” he exclaimed after a moment, looking up in horror, “this is infamous! Something must be done about it!”
“But what is it, Homes?” I cried.
“These gifted children,” he said darkly, “all of whom have in their time won medals for their musical ability, are being sent abroad! It says here ‘as a reward,’ but to whom they are being given, or what that person has done to deserve these talented children as a reward, the article does not say.”
He pushed his plate away, cast the journal to one side, and came to his feet heavily.
“We cannot stand idly by and see these poor children enslaved against their will!”
“But where are they being sent, Homes?” I inquired anxiously. “And why, if they must be enslaved, are not Englishmen at least given first occasion for their services?”
“Precisely my query!” he replied. “The children are being sent to Germany, to a small town there called Hamelin, on the banks of the Weser. But whoever arranged this fiendish mission has overlooked Schlock Homes!”
He began to undo the cord of his dressing-gown, but he had tied it in accordance with the strictures of Sir Baden-Powell and I was forced to come from my place and tug the end of the cord to free him.
“Thank you,” he said graciously. “Now, a moment for me to change to more suitable raiment, and we shall be off to scotch this nefarious scheme in the bud!”
“Scotch?” I said wonderingly, for in truth I had not been paying close attention. “And Bud? For a chaser? At this hour—?”
But Homes had already disappeared into his room, and I was left to reflect on the poor state of his memory, for he had not even attempted to pause at the sideboard on his way.
And so began the case which I find annotated in my daybook as The Adventure of the Pie-Eyed Piper, and most welcome it was. Homes had spent much of the previous fortnight at Loose Ends, the country estate of a banker friend of his, resolving the delicate matter of the huge sums that had been embezzled from the Chase Madly Bank, a case I find delineated in my notes as The Adventure of the Veiled Ledger, and now that the affair had been brought to its aoristic conclusion, he was once again restless and searching for any matter that might occupy his ever-active mind. The situation in which he had discovered the poor children was to bring his ennui to an end, as well as to bring him, I was pleased to see, the consideration his results in the case so richly deserved.
Our Bradshaw indicated there was a steamer from Callooh to Calais which we were fortunate enough to book. Since Homes’s beloved violin was out to have the frets tranquilized, and since my friend never travelled without a musical instrument of some sort to while away his unoccupied moments, he carried with him a penny-whistle, an instrument to which he had recently become introduced and which he played with considerable skill.
With it he was able to provide entertainment for our fellow passengers on the ship; nor were his efforts unappreciated, for we were regaled with coins presented, without doubt, by those in his audience familiar with the fact that Homes was an ardent numismatist. Thus occupied, my friend did not discuss the case at all during the voyage, nor did he deign to refer to it while we were on the Hamelin Express, preferring instead to softly play the Aria Coda from the Bell song on his whistle, as he undoubtedly planned his strategy.
We stepped from the train at the quaint station of Hamelin and were soon comfortably settled in at the Unterirdisch Heights Hotel, in connecting rooms. Travelling on the Continent has always been a challenge to me, since the pub hours of each country are so much at variance with our own, and I was about to knock up Homes and suggest we investigate Hamelin’s particular schedule, when there was a rap on our connecting door and I opened it to find myself staring in astonishment at Homes in the most outlandish garments.
At sight of the figure he cut all other thoughts were banished from my mind, at least temporarily, for Homes had chosen to dress in the fashion of a schoolboy. I knew he had not brought along the accoutrements necessary for any of his spectacular disguises; but then I saw he had merely cut a pair of his trousers off at the knees, had rolled down his socks, and had clipped the brim of a derby and painted stripes on it to make a fair imitation of a schoolboy’s cap. With his tremendous histrionic ability he undoubtedly felt sure he could easily pass off as a lad from a public school, albeit one who was six foot three inches in height with unusually hairy legs, in need of a facial shave, and with a penny-whistle tucked in one pocket.
“Homes!” I cried in bewilderment. “What is the meaning of this absurd costume?”
“You recognised me?” he asked in evident disappointment. “Ah, well, I suppose it was only to be expected, after the years of training I have afforded you. The costume will not be so readily penetrated by the uninitiate, however, and it will enable me to merge without suspicion with the poor enslaved children. The whistle, of course, will also give me entree into their ranks, since they are all musicians. I shall be back as soon as possible.”
“But Homes,” I cried. “Supposing you are also enslaved, since you will appear so much like the others?”
“Then, of course, one can only hope for a reasonable master,” he replied with a brave attempt at a schoolboy grin, and was off down the stairs.
While it was true that the public-house hours in Hamelin were, indeed, quite different from the outmoded practise still in force in our otherwise-enlightened Britain, the prices were also quite different, and I found myself returning to our rooms at the Unterirdisch Heights with six bottles of the local alcoholic endeavour, determined not to waste the currency of our beloved but admittedly financially distressed kingdom needlessly. I had sampled four of these liquid refreshments without determining if the savings were worthwhile, when Homes came up the stairs to my room and fell into a chair, staring at me morosely. I instantly offered him a drink which he downed in one draught, a clear indication that his mind was on other matters, or that he was thirsty. As I hurriedly refilled his glass, he sighed mightily.
“The condition of servitude of these children, Watney,” said he heavily, “is far more subtle than one might imagine. Ostensibly they are being given a modicum of freedom, but obviously only to lull them into a false sense of security before being sent to their eventual masters.”
“A modicum of freedom, Homes?” I inquired curiously.
He absent-mindedly drank off his drink and handed me the glass.
“Freedom of shorts,” he said.
I stared at him in horror. “They have deprived the children of their underwear?” I asked, aghast.
“Freedom of sorts, I meant,” said he, and took down his drink in one gulp, his mind on the problem of the children. He held out his glass. “Unforshunate for these mishcreans, they did not figure on the intervasion — intertasion—”
“The meddling of Schlock Homes?” I suggested helpfully.
“Profusely,” he said. “I mean, precisely.”
“But you do have a plan to aid these poor souls, Homes?” I asked anxiously.
“Of a certainly.” He leaned forward a bit, weaving slightly in his chair. “These chillruns, Watley, have formed theirselves into a orshester, and I have been electric loader.”