How it Happened —Arthur Conan Doyle

Arthur Conan Doyle

Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was a Scottish physician and writer who is most noted for his crime-fictions. His creation, detective Sherlock Holmes and his assistant Dr. Watson, had won the hearts of millions of readers. Some of his most famous crime stories of Holmes and Watson are A Study in Scarlet, The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Sign 0f F0ur etc. He is also known for the fictional adventures of another character he invented, the irascible scientist Professor Challenger and for popularizing the mystery of Mary Celeste. He was a prolific writer whose other works include fantasy and science fiction stories, plays, romances, poetry, non-fiction, and historical novels. The above text is adapted from his short story, How it happened.

The clock in the little country station read eleven. I had come back late from London. Outside the country station waited my big motor car. It had glaring headlights and a glitter of polished brass. It was my new thirty horse power Robur. The car had only been delivered that day. Perkins, my chauffeur, said that he thought the car was excellent.

“I'll drive the car myself,” l said and climbed into the driver's seat.

Perkins said, ”Perhaps, Sir, I had better drive."

“No; I should like to try myself," said I.

So we started on the five-mile drive for home. I got along very well until I came to Claystall Hill. It is one of the worst hills in England. It is a mile and half long with

three fairly sharp curves. My park gate stood at the very foot of the hill.

We were just over the brow of this hill, where the grade is steepest, when trouble began. I was driving at top speed, but suddenly the gears stuck. The car was going

at great rate, so I clapped on both brakes. One after other they gave way. I didn't mind so much when I felt my footbrake snap. I put all my weight on the emergency

brake. It did not work. The situation brought cold sweat out of me.

By this time we were fairly tearing down the slope. The lights were brilliant and I brought round the first curve all right. Then we did the second one. There was a

mile of straight road, then came the third curve. After that came the gate of the park.

We were still running at a fearful pace. Perkins was perfectly cool and alert. He laid his hand on the wheel.

”We can never get round that curve. Better jump, Sir.”

“No,” said I, "I'll stick it out. You can jump if you like.”

I’ll stick it with you, Sir," said he.

The wheels were whirring like a high wind and the big body was groaning. It was a narrow road and we were a great, roaring, golden death to anyone who came in our path. There was only the park gate left to clear now. It was about twenty yards to the left of the road we ran on. I turned the wheel with all the strength of my wrists. My right wheel struck full on the right hand pillar of my own gate. I heard the crash. I was conscious of flying through the air and then— and then—! When I became aware of my own existence once more, I was among the shadow of oak trees. A man was standing beside me. I saw it was Stanley, a man whom I had known at college. I had a genuine affection for him. At the present moment I was quite surprised to see him, but I felt giddy and shaken.

 “What a smash!" I said. "Good Lord, what a smash!" Stanley nodded with his familiar gentle, wistful smile. I was quite unable to move. But my senses were exceedingly alert. I saw the wrecked car lit up by moving lanterns. I saw the little group of people and heard the hushed voices around the car. No one took any notice of me.

Then suddenly I heard a cry of pain.

"The weight is on him. Lift it easy," cried a voice.

"|t’s only my leg!” said another, which I recognized as Perkins's.

"Where's master?" he cried.

”Here I am, ” I answered, but they did not seem to hear me. They were all bending over something which lay in front of the car. Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder. His touch was strangely soothing. I felt

light and happy, in spite of all.

"No pain, of course?" said he.

”None," said I.

"There never is," said he.

And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed over me. Stanley! Stanley! Why, Stanley had surely died at Bloomfontein in the Boer War! "Stanley!" I cried. The words seemed to choke my throat, "StanIey, you are dead”. He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.

”So are you," he answered.