Holmes noticed me tiptoeing down the stairs with my old service revolver. It was very fortunate that the two criminals who had invaded our Baker Street rooms had not also seen me. Their backs remained turned. My friend knew that he had to keep it that way if I was to have any chance of helping him.
"Do you know something gentlemen?" he began "I really don't understand why you became involved with the criminal business. Why with your physiques, you could have easily been ballet dancers, the pair of you."
Ballet dancers? Was Holmes trying to get himself killed?
The two thugs were evidently as confused as I was. "Us, ballerinas?" the taller one snorted, "That's for girls, that is,"
"An' I like my job jus' the way it is! At least I don't 'ave to go wearing a frilly pink poof every day," the other one joined in.
"Well, I am sure you two wouldn't have to wear the tutus, if that's what you mean,"
"Forget them toot-toots, Mr. 'Olmes, I still don't want to be a bloody dancer,"
"No? That's a shame. You could undoubtedly become quite famous. Not to mention all the pretty women you'd meet."
While the buffoons' heads were filled with notions of fame, fortune, and pink tutus, I reached the sitting room. Trying to contain my laughter at the absurdity of the whole situation, I snuck up behind one of the two men.
"When you say pretty women," the thug speculated, "Do you mean-ARGH!" His question was cut short as the butt of my gun came down on his head. The same fate befell his friend and both men fell to the ground, unconscious.
"Watson, I am beginning to fear for the criminal class of today," Holmes observed solemnly, "If these two are representative of the intelligence of the whole, I shall soon be out of work."