Sherlock Holmes still lives in our old rooms at 221B Baker Street. I visited him there one day last autumn.

When I entered the room, I saw that Holmes was deep in conversation with a fat old man who had bright red hair.

I said sorry for interrupting and tried to leave the room so I can let them speak. But Holmes jumped out of his chair and cried “Come in, Dr. Watson!”. “Meet Mr. J. B. Wilson. Mr. Wilson, this is Dr. Watson. He works with me on many of my cases.”

The fat man got up and nodded. Holmes sat back down in his chair. He put his fingers together. (He often does that when he is thinking.) He smiled.

“Watson, I know you love strange stories as much as I do. Mr. Wilson here has just started telling his tale. And it’s one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.”

Mr. Wilson looked proud as Holmes showed such interest in his story. He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. “Look at this notice, Dr. Watson,” he said. “You can read it for yourself.”

As I took the paper from him, I took another look at Mr. Wilson. He was wearing baggy trousers, a dirty coat, a dark waistcoat with a large watch with a watch chain. Holmes saw me looking at the red-headed man and laughed. “Apart from that he went to China, he has done manual labour and does a lot of writing, there’s not much to say.”

Mr. Wilson looked shocked and said, “how on earth did you know all that?”

Holmes laughed as he said, “it is very easy Mr. Wilson. The tattoo above your right hand could only have been done in China. Plus, the Chinese coin hanging from your watch chain makes it even easier.”

“But manual labour? It is true that I worked on a ship when I was younger.”

“Your right hand is much bigger than your left. That shows you often worked with your hands.”

“But…but….a lot of writing?”

“Your coat’s elbow is very shiny which shows that you rest your arm when you are writing.”

“I see”, Mr. Wilson laughed, “I thought you had done something clever but I realized that it was so obvious.”

Holmes gave a smile and said, “Maybe, I should not be so honest otherwise no one will ever come to me for help. Watson, can you read out the advert?”

“To All Red-headed Men”, I began to read out.

“There is a job open at the Red-headed League. The pay is 4 pounds a week. The work is not very hard. To get the job you must have red hair. You must be a man over 21 years old. Come in person on Monday, at 11 o’clock, to 7 Fleet Street. Ask for Duncan Ross.”

“What can it mean?” I asked.

“Holmes laughed. “It is a little odd, isn’t it? Do tell us more, Mr. Wilson.”

“I own a store at Coburg Square,” said Wilson. “It’s a very small place and recently business has not been very good. I used to have two helpers. Now I can pay only one. I can pay him only because he will work for half pay. I don’t know what I would do without him.”

“Hmm. A good helper who works for half pay,” said Holmes. “And what is the name of this nice young man?”

“Vincent Spaulding,” replied Wilson. “He isn’t that young though. Vincent is very smart, and I know that he could easily get more money if he goes to another shop. But, Vincent does have his problems. He is always down in the basement. He plays with all those cameras of his down there. He is mad about taking photos. But on the whole he’s a very good worker.”

“One day about eight weeks ago, Spaulding came into my room. He had this paper in his hand. ‘I tell you, Mr. Wilson,’ Spaulding said, ‘I wish I were a red-headed man. Here’s another job open at the Red-headed League.’

“Now, I had never heard of the Red-headed League. I don’t go out too much as I am a widower and have to spend all my time in the shop. But Spaulding knew all about it.

“He told me that the league had been started by Ezekiah Hopkins. Hopkins was an American millionaire. He had bright red hair.”

“Then Hopkins came to London. In London he got rich, and he loved London so much that he left money in his will to Londoners with red hair.

“Now, as you may have noticed, my hair is very red. So, it was easy for Spaulding to persuade me to try and get the job, even though I knew that there must be thousands of red-headed men in London.”

“What have you got to lose?’ he asked me.

“That was a Monday. It’s always a slow day at the store. So, we shut the shop. Spaulding went with me to Fleet Street.

“I never saw anything like it. Fleet Street was packed with red-headed men. I didn’t think that there were so many red-headed men in England! The street looked like a wagon full of oranges. I saw every shade of red you can think of. Orange red. Brick red. Strawberry blond.

“I was ready to give up and go home. But Spaulding did not let me leave. I do not know how he did it. But he pushed and pulled. At last, he got me to the door.”

“We joined the line going up the steps. There was another line of men coming down. They were men who had been rejected.”

“Our queue kept moving. Soon we found ourselves in a room on the second floor. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a table. Behind the table sat a small man. His hair was as red as mine. This man looked over each new job hunter. He found some small reason to say no to each one.

“But my turn was different. The red-headed man took one look at me. Then he got up and closed the door. He shook my hand. ‘I’m Duncan Ross,’ he said.

“I was too afraid to say anything. So my helper spoke for me. ‘This is J. B. Wilson,’ said Spaulding. ‘He’s here about the job with the Red-headed League.’

“And he’s just right for it!’ cried Duncan Ross. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen such an amazing head of red hair.’

“Ross stepped over to the open window. ‘The job has been taken!’ he shouted. One by one the men below all went away. Soon Mr. Duncan Ross and I were the only redheads in sight.

“Ross turned to me. ‘How soon can you start your new job?’

“ ‘Uh, I don’t know …’ said I. ‘I have a small store—’

“Vincent Spaulding interrupted. ‘Oh, don’t worry about the store, Mr. Wilson,’ he said. ‘I can take care of that for you.’

“So, I said I would work for Mr. Ross. I needed to come to Fleet Street every day between ten and two. My job? Well, you are not going to believe this. All I had to do was to copy the Encyclopedia Britannica. That’s all. And for that I would be paid four pounds a week! I had to stay in the office during that time otherwise I would lose the job.”

“I walked out of there feeling very pleased with myself. But not for long. Quite soon I began having second thoughts. This all had to be some kind of joke. I just couldn’t believe that story about Ezekiah Hopkins.

“But as my helper had said, I had nothing to lose. So I arrived at Fleet Street the next day at ten.

“To my surprise, everything went just as Mr. Ross had said it would. I went to Fleet Street every day. I copied the encyclopedia. Every Saturday, Mr. Ross would come in and pay me four pounds.

“Things went on this way for eight weeks. I copied out all the facts about animals. About apples. About Africa. I began to get tired of the A’s. I hoped to finish soon and get on to the B’s. Then all at once the whole business ended.”

“What? Ended?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, sir,” said Wilson. “It happened only this morning. I went to work at ten o’clock. When I got there I found this card on the door.”

The Red-headed League no longer exists.

October 9, 1890

Sherlock Holmes and I read this card. We looked at J. B. Wilson’s face. The funny side of his story made us forget Mr. Wilson. We laughed out loud.

“I can’t see that it’s very funny,” cried Mr. Wilson. His face turned as red as his hair. “If you’re going to make fun of me, I’ll leave.”

“No, no. Don’t go,” said Holmes. “I really want to hear your story. I have a feeling it could be something very important.”

“Why, of course it’s important,” said Mr. Wilson. “I have lost four pounds a week!”

“Come, come, Mr. Wilson,” said Holmes. “You have lost nothing. You are thirty-two pounds richer than you thought you would be. To say nothing of what you now know about things starting with A.”

“But I want to know what it was all about!” Mr. Wilson said. “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Holmes. Can you find out for me?”

“I will do my best,” said Holmes. “But first—a question. This Vincent Spaulding. This helper of yours. How long has he been with you?

“About a month or so.”

“How did he come?”

“He came when I advertised for the job.”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s small. But very quick and strong. About thirty years old. He has a patch of very white skin on his face.”

Holmes sat up straight. He was very excited. “That’s enough, Mr. Wilson,” he said. “You may go home now. Today is Saturday. By Monday I will have your answer.”