“Now for Mr. Breckinridge，” he continued， buttoning up hiscoat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember， Watson thatthough we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of thischain， we have at the other a man who will certainly get sevenyears’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It ispossible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt； but， in anycase， we have a line of investigation which has been missed by thepolice， and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let usfollow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south， then， and quickmarch！”
We passed across Holborn， down Endell Street， and so througha zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largeststalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it， and the proprietor ahorsey-looking man， with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers washelping a boy to put up the shutters.
“Good-evening. It’s a cold night，” said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at mycompanion.
“Sold out of geese， I see，” continued Holmes， pointing at thebare slabs of marble.
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well， there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.”
“Ah， but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by？”
“The landlord of the Alpha.”
“Oh， yes； I sent him a couple of dozen.”
“Fine birds they were， too. Now where did you get them from？”
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from thesalesman.
“Now， then， mister，” said he， with his head cocked and his armsakimbo， “what are you driving at？ Let’s have it straight， now.”
“It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you thegeese which you supplied to the Alpha.”
“Well then， I shan’t tell you. So now！”
“Oh， it is a matter of no importance； but I don’t know why youshould be so warm over such a trifle.”
“Warm！ You’d be as warm， maybe， if you were as pestered as Iam. When I pay good money for a good article there should be anend of the business； but it’s ‘Where are the geese？’ and ‘Who didyou sell the geese to？’ and ‘What will you take for the geese？’ Onewould think they were the only geese in the world， to hear the fussthat is made over them.”
“Well， I have no connection with any other people who havebeen making inquiries，” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell usthe bet is off， that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinionon a matter of fowls， and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate iscountry bred.”
“Well， then， you’ve lost your fiver， for it’s town bred，” snappedthe salesman.
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“I say it is.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“D’you think you know more about fowls than I， who havehandled them ever since I was a nipper？ I tell you， all those birdsthat went to the Alpha were town bred.”
“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”
“Will you bet， then？”
“It’s merely taking your money， for I know that I am right.
But I’ll have a sovereign on with you， just to teach you not to beobstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books， Bill，” saidhe.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a greatgreasy-backed one， laying them out together beneath the hanginglamp.
“Now then， Mr. Cocksure，” said the salesman， “I thought thatI was out of geese， but before I finish you’ll find that there is stillone left in my shop. You see this little book？”
“Well？”
“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see？ Well，then， here on this page are the country folk， and the numbersafter their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger.
Now， then！ You see this other page in red ink？ Well， that is a list ofmy town suppliers. Now， look at that third name. Just read it outto me.”
“Mrs. Oakshott， 117， Brixton Road—249，” read Holmes.
“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are， ‘Mrs.
Oakshott， 117， Brixton Road， egg and poultry supplier.’？”
“Now， then， what’s the last entry？”
“ ‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’？”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath？”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha， at 12s.’ ”
“What have you to say now？”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereignfrom his pocket and threw it down upon the slab， turning awaywith the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A fewyards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty，noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ‘un’
protruding out of his pocket， you can always draw him by a bet，”
said he. “I daresay that if I had put ￡100 down in front of him，that man would not have given me such complete informationas was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on awager. Well， Watson， we are， I fancy， nearing the end of our quest，and the only point which remains to be determined is whetherwe should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night， or whether weshould reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surlyfellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxiousabout the matter， and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub whichbroke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round wesaw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circleof yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp， whileBreckinridge， the salesman， framed in the door of his stall， wasshaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese，” he shouted. “I wish youwere all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any morewith your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshotthere and I’ll answer her， but what have you to do with it？ Did Ibuy the geese off you？”
“No； but one of them was mine all the same，” whined the littleman.
“Well， then， ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well， you can ask the King of Proosia， for all I care. I’ve hadenough of it. Get out of this！” He rushed fiercely forward， and theinquirer flitted away into the darkness.
