I had no early calls to make that morning and thus was enjoying the opportunity to begin my day as sluggishly as possible. While it was Holmes' practice to claim the coveted spot on the settee - and with his whole tall, lean frame draped over it he took up quite all of it - he had yet to make his entrance upon the sitting room, so I had curled up there gratefully with an afghan and the paper to drink my coffee. I was very much looking forward to some languid hours of comfortable solitude and was thus a bit concerned for their safety when none other than my flatmate came stumbling noisily into the room, much earlier than I'd expected him.

I felt a bit inclined to be cautious for my claim to the settee.

"Good morning, Holmes," I ventured, peering over the top of the paper. My companion, still dressed in the rumpled shirt and trousers he'd no doubt fallen into bed in, the hard line of his jaw made a bit softer to the eye by a shading of stubble, merely stretched and grumbled:

"I need a cigarette."

I was just as happy to leave him to that, and returned to the paper with a shrug as he began to hunt through the pockets of his inverness, his dressing gown, and any other article of clothing he'd thrown on the floor recently for his cigarette case.

Once he'd found this, I expected, there were few things he might do - retreat again to his room, ensconce himself in an armchair, or throw on a coat and dash back off on whatever case he'd been lately occupied with. He would not pick up his violin, as he never smoked and played at the same time for fear of doing harm to the instrument. At worst, he might take up some chemical pursuit, as the increased risk of fire his smoking presented to such tasks never deterred him from the practice. I simply sank behind my paper and prayed against the latter. At any rate, it seemed most likely that my relaxing morning should continue intact.

Or so I thought.

Quite suddenly, there came a knock at the door.

"A client?" I all but groaned.

Holmes' brows arched as he straightened up, drawing a cigarette from the case he'd retrieved and placing it between his lips.

"An angry one, if it is," he said around it. "Did you not hear him stomping up the steps?"

I shook my head.

"I suppose we'll see about it, anyhow," Holmes said, crossing to the door.

Normally he would have been loath to answer the door to a client unshaven, dressed in the clothes he'd slept in with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and would have dashed off to his room, throwing a "get that, would you, Watson?" over his shoulder. Under the circumstances I did not mind that he had not, though the fact still perplexes me. He opened the door to reveal what was indeed a very irate personage standing on the landing.

The fellow was perhaps a bit older than Holmes, in his mid twenties or so, and dressed rather classlessly in a plain suit that could have been a laborer's sunday best, or the standard attire of a middle class student. His face, had it not been flushed with rage, may have shown the weathering long hours out of doors might have produced and allowed me to draw a distinction, as might the condition of his hands had they not been curled into white knuckled fists.

"You!" he all but shrieked at Holmes.

Holmes didn't reply and very calmly took the cigarette from his mouth.

"You devious bastard!" the fellow on our door step continued. "I am ruined because of you!"

"Who are you again?" Holmes asked casually.

Our guest turned a whole new color entirely. "If you do not know me, sir, after -!"

"It's just I think I've ruined several enterprises lately," Holmes interjected, counting absently on the fingers of his hand unoccupied with holding his cigarette. "Were you the fraudulent importers of art, the coiners, or the blokes trafficking girls from Shanghai?"

"What?" the fellow on the landing gasped.

"Oh! I'm sorry, silly me," Holmes smiled finally, clapping a hand self-deprecatingly to his head. "You're the bookie from the fight at the Queen's Head."

"I swear I'll kill you for what you did!" the man continued to rage, putting up his fists now. I half rose, thinking to dart to my desk drawer for my revolver if things became serious.

Holmes, leaning very casually in the door way, put his cigarette back into his mouth and said insufferably:

"Well, you had better make your first swing count, hadn't you?"

This was more than the other man could take. He wound an arm back to strike, and in slow motion I seemed to note for the first time the heavy, gnarled knuckles of a veteran pugilist. I leapt to my feet, starting for my desk.

And then Holmes slammed the door.

There was a terrific crack and a howl of agony from the landing as our guest's blow connected with the solid oak.

I had stuttered to a halt, my efforts stymied by this sudden turn of events as my brain, reflexively tuned to action-pitch, had suddenly found what it expected from a dangerous scenario replaced by a total inanity.

Holmes was ridiculously pleased with himself and turned away from the door, hilarity all over his face, punching both fists in the air victoriously.

From the landing outside there came a stream of shouted invectives which I do not care to record in print. Before long the fellow was putting his shoulder into the door, now more determined than ever to make good on his threat, and it had occurred to Holmes that if he didn't want to incur our landlady's wrath as well he'd better take the trouble he'd bought himself elsewhere. He quickly gathered his inverness from the floor and a hat from his desk, still grinning as he stuffed his cigarette case into his pocket and called: "'Bye, Watson!"

He dashed for his room, no doubt meaning to make his exit by way of the window and the fire escape.

I supposed, when the shouting and banging from the hall turned to footsteps flying down the stairs at double time, that the pugilist he'd seen fit to antagonize had spotted him in the street and given chase.

Later, when Holmes returned surprisingly none the worse for wear, he would relate to me how he had come across the fellow in the first place - by exposing to his boxing cronies that he'd been pocketing a portion of the winnings his client's made on matches.

In any event, I began on my rounds early that day. Initially I had tried to salvage my plans for a relaxing morning, but after a few minutes of jumping at every sound, expecting my wounded friend or his irate opponent to come stumbling or storming in, respectively, I had to wonder whom exactly I meant to kid. I lived with Sherlock Holmes, after all.

I should have known better than to expect a dull moment.