Volume VI
It was not until long after we were back in our cottage that Holmes broke his
complete and absorbed silence. He sat coiled in his armchair, his haggard and
ascetic face hardly visible amid the blue swirl of his tobacco smoke, his black
brows drawn down, his forehead contracted, his eyes vacant and far away. Finally
he lay down his pipe and sprang to his feet.
"It won't do, Watson!" said he with a laugh. "Let us walk
along the cliffs together and search for ruined mines. We are more likely to
find them than clues to this problem."
"Now, let us calmly define our position, Watson" he continued as we
skirted the cliffs together.
"Aaaaaaaaagh!" I replied, defining my position as being plummeting
down an open mine shaft that I had just that very second discovered.
Fortunately, the end of my fall proved to be more gentle than I could have
hoped for as I splashed down into a large pool of warm, pleasant-smelling
liquid.
"I said 'calmly'," Holmes berated me. "What, pray, is calm
about yelling 'aaaaaaagh'?"
"Holmes, I thought you said Cornwall was full of tin mines."
"So it is, Watson. Or to be more precise, tin can mines. For centuries
the Cornish miners have mined and made them to transport various types of
food."
"Then, what on earth am I paddling about in? It certainly isn't tin
cans."
"Hang on while I get my bearings, Watson," Holmes shouted as he
scanned the surrounding area.
"My God, Watson," he cried. "We are surrounded by tin can
mines. There's Wheal Baxter's, Wheal Campbell's, Wheal Bachelor's, even Wheal
Heinz. I do believe that you have found the Lost Soup Mines Of Jellyman!"