I was waitin’ outside the door, sir, and I could hear him. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin’ and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. “There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.” “Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more. For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk with me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were breaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.
Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting. That he should have kept himself in training under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge of austerity. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some professional object to be served. Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s sake.
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