[adapted]

by
Arthur Conan Doyle

I had gone to visit my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year. I found him deep in conversation with a very fat, red-faced, older gentleman who had bright red hair. I said sorry for interrupting and was about to leave, when Holmes quickly pulled me into the room and shut the door behind me.

“You couldn’t have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said kindly.

“I was afraid you were busy.”

“I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has helped me with many of my most successful cases, and I’m sure he will be very useful in your case too.”

The fat gentleman half-stood from his chair and gave a small nod of greeting, with a quick little look from his small, round eyes.

“Try the sofa,” said Holmes, leaning back in his armchair and pressing his fingers together, as he often did when he was thinking deeply. “I know, my dear Watson, that you enjoy strange things and stories that are different from the boring routines of everyday life. You’ve shown how much you like them by writing down—and, if I may say so, sometimes adding a bit of color to—so many of my small adventures.”

“Your cases have truly been very interesting to me,” I said.

“You may remember that I said the other day, just before we looked into the simple case of Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange events and unusual combinations, we must look at real life. Real life is always more bold and surprising than anything we could make up in our imagination.”

“A statement I politely disagreed with.”

“You did, doctor, but even so, you will have to agree with me in the end. Otherwise, I’ll just keep showing you fact after fact until your logic gives in and you admit that I’m right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has kindly come to visit me this morning, and he has started a story that promises to be one of the strangest I’ve heard in quite a while. You’ve heard me say that the most curious and rare things are often linked to small crimes, not big ones. And sometimes, it’s not even clear if a real crime has been committed at all. From what I’ve heard so far, I can’t say whether this case is a crime or not—but the events are definitely among the strangest I’ve ever heard. Mr. Wilson, would you kindly begin your story again? I ask not only because my friend Dr. Watson hasn’t heard the beginning, but also because your story is so unusual that I want to hear every detail directly from you. Usually, when I hear just a little hint about what has happened, I can understand the case by comparing it to thousands of others I remember. But in this case, I must say honestly, I believe these facts are completely one of a kind.”

The large gentleman puffed out his chest with a bit of pride and pulled out a dirty, wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his big coat. As he looked down the advertisement page, with his head leaning forward and the paper spread out on his knee, I took a good look at him and tried, like Holmes often did, to understand what his clothes or appearance might tell me.

I didn’t learn very much from my look at him. He seemed like a very average British shopkeeper—fat, proud, and slow-moving. He wore loose gray checkered trousers, a black coat that wasn’t very clean and was open in the front, and a dull-colored vest with a heavy gold-colored chain hanging across it. A square piece of metal dangled from it as decoration. A worn-out top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar were lying on a chair beside him. No matter how hard I looked, there was nothing special about the man—except for his bright red hair and the very unhappy, frustrated look on his face.

Sherlock Holmes quickly noticed what I was doing and smiled as he saw me trying to study the man. “Other than the obvious facts—that he has done hard physical work, that he uses snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been to China, and that he has been writing a lot lately—I can’t say anything else,” said Holmes.

Mr. Jabez Wilson sat up straight in his chair, his finger still on the paper, but his eyes fixed on Holmes.

“How on earth did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I used to do hard physical work? That’s completely true—I started out as a ship’s carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is clearly larger than your left. You’ve used it for work, and the muscles are more developed.”

“Well, what about the snuff and the Freemasonry?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining that, especially since, even though it’s a bit against your group’s rules, you’re wearing a pin with an arc and compass on your chest.”

“Oh, right—I forgot about that. But what about the writing?”

“That shiny patch on your right shirt cuff shows you’ve written a lot. It’s shiny for about five inches. And on your left sleeve, there’s a smooth spot near the elbow where you rest your arm on the desk.”

“Okay, but how did you know about China?”

“The fish tattoo right above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I’ve studied tattoos a little and even written about them. That style of painting the fish scales a soft pink is special to China. And then I also see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain—so that makes it even clearer.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed loudly. “Well, I never!” he said. “At first, I thought you had done something really smart—but now I see there was nothing special about it after all.”

“I’m beginning to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that maybe I shouldn’t explain so much. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico’—people think the unknown is always amazing. If I’m too honest, my small reputation might sink like a ship. Mr. Wilson, can you find the advertisement?”

“Yes, I’ve found it now,” he said, pressing his thick red finger halfway down the page. “Here it is. This is what started it all. You can read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read:

“To the Red-headed League: Because of a gift left by the late Ezekiah Hopkins of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now a new opening that gives a member of the League a salary of £4 a week for very light duties. All red-haired men who are healthy in body and mind, and over the age of twenty-one, may apply. Come in person on Monday at eleven o’clock to Duncan Ross, at the League offices, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What on earth does this mean?” I asked, after reading the strange message twice.

Holmes chuckled and shifted happily in his chair, as he often did when he was in a good mood. “It’s a little unusual, isn’t it?” he said. “Now, Mr. Wilson, please tell us everything from the beginning—about yourself, your home, and what happened after you saw this ad. Doctor, make a note of the paper and the date first.”

“It’s The Morning Chronicle, dated April 27, 1890. That’s exactly two months ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it’s just like I’ve already said, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, wiping his forehead. “I run a small pawnbroker’s shop in Coburg Square, near the city. It’s not a big business, and in recent years it’s barely made enough to support me. I used to have two assistants, but now I only have one—and I can barely afford to pay him. Luckily, he agreed to work for half wages, just so he can learn the business.”

“What’s the name of this helpful young man?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not really that young either. It’s hard to guess his age. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant, Mr. Holmes. I know he could get a better job and earn twice what I can pay him. But if he’s happy with what he has, why should I give him new ideas?”

“Exactly. You’re very lucky to have an employee who works for less than the usual pay. That doesn’t happen often these days. I’m not sure your assistant isn’t just as unusual as that advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his flaws, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “He’s crazy about photography. Always taking pictures when he should be learning something useful. Then he runs down to the cellar like a rabbit to develop his photos. That’s his main fault—but overall, he’s a good worker. There’s no badness in him.”

“He still works for you, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. It’s just him and a fourteen-year-old girl who does some simple cooking and cleaning. That’s all I have in the house. I’m a widower and never had a family. We live quietly, the three of us. We don’t do much, but we keep a roof over our heads and pay our bills.

“The first strange thing that happened was that advertisement. Spaulding came into the office exactly eight weeks ago today, holding this newspaper, and he said:

‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’”

“‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘here’s another job open in the Red-headed League. It’s worth quite a bit of money for anyone who gets it. I’ve heard there are more jobs than there are red-headed men, so the people in charge don’t know what to do with all the money. If only my hair would turn red, I’d have a nice little position waiting for me.’

“‘What kind of job is it?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I stay home a lot, and because people come to my shop, I don’t need to go out much. Sometimes I don’t even leave the house for weeks. So I don’t hear much about what’s happening in the world, and I’m always glad to get some news.

“‘Have you never heard of the Red-headed League?’ he asked, looking surprised.

“‘Never.’

“‘That surprises me—because you could apply for one of the open jobs yourself.’

“‘And what do those jobs pay?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, just a couple hundred pounds a year, but the work is easy and won’t get in the way of any other job.’

“Well, you can guess that I was interested right away. Business hasn’t been very good in recent years, and an extra couple hundred pounds would have been very helpful.”

“‘Tell me everything,’ I said.

“‘Well,’ he said, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that there’s a job open with the League, and that’s the address where you should go to find out more. As far as I understand, the League was started by an American millionaire named Ezekiah Hopkins, who was a very unusual man. He had red hair himself and felt a strong connection to all red-haired men. So, when he died, he left his huge fortune in the hands of some trustees, with instructions to use the money to give easy jobs to men with red hair. From what I’ve heard, the pay is excellent, and there’s very little work to do.’

“‘But,’ I said, ‘millions of red-headed men would apply.’

“‘Not as many as you’d think,’ he said. ‘You see, it’s really just for men who live in London and are grown-ups. This American man had lived in London when he was young, and he wanted to give something back to the city. Also, I’ve heard that it’s no use applying unless your hair is bright, blazing, fiery red. Light red or dark red won’t do. Now, if you wanted to apply, Mr. Wilson, you’d have a great chance—but maybe it’s not worth the trouble just for a few hundred pounds.’