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Baker Street division of the detective police force,” his “unofficial force,” and “the Baker Street irregulars.”
    â€œâ€™Tention!” snapped Holmes; and the urchins struggled into a ragged line and presented their begrimed little faces in what they evidently took to be a military posture.
    â€œNow, have you found it?”
    â€œYes, sir, we ’ave,” replied one of the band.
    â€œIt was me, sir!” cut in another eagerly as he grinned, showing gaps where three teeth were wanting.
    â€œVery good,” said Holmes, sternly, “but we work as a unit. No individual glory, men. One for all and all for one.”
    â€œYes, sir ,” came the chorus.
    â€œThe report?”
    â€œIt’s in Whitechapel.”
    â€œAh!”
    â€œOn Great Heapton Street, near the pass-over. The street is narrow there, sir.”
    â€œVery good,” said Holmes again. “Here is your pay. Now be off with you.”
    He gave each urchin a shining shilling. They clattered happily away, as they had come, and we soon heard their shrill young voices from below.
    Now Holmes knocked the dottle from his pipe. “Wiggins? Oh, he did very well. Joined her Majesty’s forces. My last note from him was post-marked Africa.”
    â€œHe was a sharp youngster, as I recall.”
    â€œSo are they all. And London’s supply of the little beggars never diminishes. But I have an inquiry to make. Let us be off.”
    It took no feat of intellect to predict our destination. So I was not surprised when we stood before a pawnshop window on Great Heapton Street, in Whitechapel. The street, as Holmes had deduced and the urchins confirmed, was narrow, with high buildings on the side opposite the shop. When we arrived, the sun was just cutting a line across the glass, the inscription upon which read: Joseph Beck — Loans .
    Holmes pointed to the display in the window. “The kit sat there, Watson. Do you see where the sun strikes?”
    I could only nod my head. Accustomed though I was to the unnerring keenness of his judgements, the proof never ceased to amaze me.
    Inside the shop, we were greeted by a pudgy man of middle-age whose moustaches were heavily waxed and drilled into military points. Joseph Beck was the archetype of German tradesmen, and his efforts to produce a Prussian effect were ludicrous.
    â€œMay I be of service, sirs?” His English was thickly accented.
    I presume, in that neighbourhood, we were a cut above his usual run of clients; possibly he hoped to acquire a pledge of high value. He actually clicked his heels and came to attention.
    â€œA friend,” said Holmes, “recently made me a gift, a surgeon’s-case purchased in your shop.”
    Herr Beck’s protuberant little eyes turned sly. “Yes?”
    â€œBut one of the instruments was missing from the case. I should like to complete the set. Do you have some surgical instruments from which I might select the missing one?”
    â€œI am afraid, sir, I cannot help you.” The pawnbroker was clearly disappointed.
    â€œDo you recall the set I refer to, the transaction?”
    â€œ Ach , yes, sir. It took place a week ago, and I get very few such articles. But the set was complete when the woman redeemed it and carried it away. Did she tell you one of the instruments was missing?”
    â€œI do not recall,” Holmes said, in an off-hand manner. “The point is that you cannot help me now.”
    â€œI am sorry, sir. I have no surgical instruments of any description.”
    Holmes pretended petulance. “All the way down here for nothing! You have caused me great inconvenience, Beck.”
    The man looked astonished. “You are being unreasonable, sir. I do not see how I am responsible for what occurred after the case left my shop.”
    Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose not,” said he, carelessly. “But it is a nuisance. I came a long