When Conan Doyle arrived for the first time in Boston he was instantly recognized by the cabman whose vehicle he had engaged. When the great literary man offered to pay his fare the cabman said quite respectfully:

"If you please, sir, I should much prefer a ticket to your lecture. If you should have none with you a visiting-card penciled by yourself would do."

Conan Doyle laughed.

"Tell me," he said, "how did you know who I was, and I will give you tickets for your whole family."

"Thank you sir," was the reply. "Why, we all knew—that is, all the members of the Cabmen's Literary Guild knew—that you were coming by this train. I happen to be the only member on duty at the station this morning. If you will excuse personal remarks your coat lapels are badly twisted downward where they have been grasped by the pertinacious New York reporters. Your hair has the Quakerish cut of a Philadelphia barber, and your hat, battered at the brim in front, shows where you have tightly grasped it in the struggle to stand your ground at a Chicago literary luncheon. Your right overshoe has a large block of Buffalo mud just under the instep, the odor of a Utica cigar hangs about your clothing, and the overcoat itself shows the slovenly brushing of the porters of the through sleepers from Albany, and stenciled upon the very end of the 'Wellington' in fairly plain lettering is your name, 'Conan Doyle.'"

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