A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.

Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
"Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else." Mr.Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes ?" he asked.

"How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour.

It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter." "Your hands, my dear sir.

Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left.