© Тамбовцева С.Г.
© Глушенкова Е.В.
© Матвеев С. А., адаптация текста, комментарии, словарь, 2021
© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2021
In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to take the course for surgeons in the army. I completed my studies there, and became Assistant Surgeon[1]. I came to the Berkshires[2], with whom I served at the fatal battle. There I was struck on the shoulder[3] by a bullet, which shattered the bone. I was so weak that they sent me back to England.
I had neither friends nor relatives in England. I came to London. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel. One day I was at a bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round and recognized Stamford. The sight of a friendly face in London is a pleasant thing to a lonely man. I asked him to lunch with me, and we went together in a hansom.
“Whatever are you doing, Watson?” he asked, as we rattled through the London streets. “You are as thin as a lath.”
“Looking for lodgings.” I answered. “I want to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s strange,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man today who says so.”
“And who is the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory. He cannot get someone for the nice rooms which he found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“Oh!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I can be his partner.”
Stamford looked at me.
“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said.