I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the secondmorning after Christmas， with the intention of wishing him thecompliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in apurple dressing-gown， a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right，and a pile of crumpled morning papers， evidently newly studied，near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair， and on theangle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felthat， much the worse for wear， and cracked in several places. Alens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested thatthe hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose ofexamination.
“You are engaged，” said I； “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discussmy results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one”—he jerked histhumb in the direction of the old hat—“but there are points inconnection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest andeven of instruction.”
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before hiscrackling fire， for a sharp frost had set in， and the windows werethick with the ice crystals. “I suppose，” I remarked， “that， homelyas it looks， this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—thatit is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mysteryand the punishment of some crime.”
“No， no. No crime，” said Sherlock Holmes， laughing. “Only oneof those whimsical little incidents which will happen when youhave four million human beings all jostling each other within thespace of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of sodense a swarm of humanity， every possible combination of eventsmay be expected to take place， and many a little problem willbe presented which may be striking and bizarre without beingcriminal. We have already had experience of such.”
“So much so，” I remarked， “that of the last six cases which Ihave added to my notes， three have been entirely free of any legalcrime.”
“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adlerpapers， to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland， and to theadventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well， I have no doubtthat this small matter will fall into the same innocent category.
You know Peterson， the commissionaire？”
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“It is his hat.”
“No， no， he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you willlook upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectualproblem. And， first， as to how it came here. It arrived uponChristmas morning， in company with a good fat goose， which is， Ihave no doubt， roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire.
The facts are these： about four o’clock on Christmas morning，Peterson， who， as you know， is a very honest fellow， was returningfrom some small jollification and was making his way homewarddown Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw， in thegaslight， a tallish man， walking with a slight stagger， and carryinga white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the cornerof Goodge Street， a row broke out between this stranger and alittle knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat，on which he raised his stick to defend himself and， swinging itover his head， smashed the shop window behind him. Petersonhad rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants；but the man， shocked at having broken the window， and seeing anofficial-looking person in uniform rushing towards him， droppedhis goose， took to his heels， and vanished amid the labyrinth ofsmall streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. Theroughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson， so that he wasleft in possession of the field of battle， and also of the spoils ofvictory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachableChristmas goose.”
“Which surely he restored to their owner？”
“My dear fellow， there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs.
Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to thebird’s left leg， and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legibleupon the lining of this hat； but as there are some thousands ofBakers， and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours， itis not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”
“What， then， did Peterson do？”
“He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmasmorning， knowing that even the smallest problems are of interestto me. The goose we retained until this morning， when therewere signs that， in spite of the slight frost， it would be well that itshould be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carriedit off， therefore， to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose， while Icontinue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost hisChristmas dinner.”
“Did he not advertise？”
“No.”
“Then， what clue could you have as to his identity？”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat？”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old batteredfelt？”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gatheryourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn thisarticle？”
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over ratherruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape，hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of redsilk， but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name；but， as Holmes had remarked， the initials “H. B.” were scrawledupon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer， but theelastic was missing. For the rest， it was cracked， exceedingly dusty，and spotted in several places， although there seemed to have beensome attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing themwith ink.
“I can see nothing，” said I， handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary， Watson， you can see everything. You fail，however， to reason from what you see. You are too timid indrawing your inferences.”“Then， pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat？”