I visited my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year. He was deep in conversation with a very large elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. I apologized for interrupting and was about to leave when Holmes pulled me into the room and closed the door behind me. “You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said warmly. “I was afraid that you were busy.” “So I am. Very much so.” “Then I can wait in the next room.” “Not at all. Mr. Watson, you have been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he can help with this.” The large gentleman looked unsure but got up from his chair to greet me. Holmes said, “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of the bizarre and abnormal. You have written about my adventures, even sometimes adding little details.” “Your cases have indeed interested me,” I observed. “Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to come by this morning, and to tell a story which promises to be one of the most unique that I have ever heard. I have often said that the strangest things are usually connected with small crimes. And in this case, there may not even be a crime. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would kindly begin your story again. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the unique nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail correct.” The large man took a deep breath and appeared to be proud of his little story. He pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, I took a good look at the man and tried to understand the man in the way Holmes would. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor looked like an average British tradesman. He was fat, proud, and slow. He wore baggy grey trousers and a not over-clean black coat. As much as I looked, I couldn’t find anything remarkable about the man except for his fiery red hair. Sherlock Holmes’ shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning looks. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can’t deduce anything else.” Holmes said. Mr. Jabez Wilson straightened up in his chair, with his finger on the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. “How, in the world, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labor. I was a ship’s carpenter as a young man.” “Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.” “Ah, well, what about the writing?” “The right sleeve of your shirt. It’s so very shiny for five inches, and the left one has a smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it on the desk?” “Well, how about China?” “The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even written on the subject. That delicate pink color is quite certainly from China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your neck, the matter becomes even more simple.” Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.” “I am beginning to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining.” Getting back to work, Holmes asked “Can you find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” “Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger pointing to the middle of the page. “Here it is. This is where it all began. You just read it for yourself, sir.” I took the paper from him and read as follows: “TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: In honor of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another opening which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £4 a week for basic services. All red-headed men who are healthy in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, should apply. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.” “What on earth does this mean?” I said after I had read the extraordinary announcement twice and still couldn’t make sense of it. Holmes chuckled, “It is a little strange, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, tell us all about yourself, your household, and this little advertisement. When did you read it, Mr. Wilson?” “On April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.” “Very good.” “Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, touching his forehead; “I have a small store at Coburg Square, near the city. It’s not a very large shop, and of late it hasn’t been making me much money. I used to have two assistants, but now I only have one. I would struggle to pay even him, but he is willing to work for half the money in order to learn the business.” “What is the name of this young man?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not so young, either. It’s hard to say his age. I could not wish for a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could earn twice as much as I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?”