Hiring the Baker Street Irregulars

At lunch after yesterday's soccer practice, my daughter realized that she had left her grandmother's ring somewhere on the pitch*. The pitch being her school's grassy playground, we sped back to look for it. There were still some younger children at the school, waiting for their parents and playing on the field as a part of our after-school program. Recalling the techniques of the great Sherlock Holmes, I enlisted a group of them to help look for the ring with the promise of a dollar for the one who found it.

At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell, and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.

"By heavens, Holmes," I said, half rising, "I believe that they are really after us."

"No, it's not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial force—the Baker Street irregulars."

As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street Arabs. There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces. One of their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority which was very funny in such a disreputable little scarecrow.

We found the ring in record time and I ended up paying each of the little street Arabs a dollar. One tyke, a lad of no more than 7, his face smeared with whatever he had been lunching upon, was particularly keen on where he might find some treats to purchase. I left them in the care of the counselor who assured them that she could turn up something quite delicious while my daughter and I left with a decided air of triumph.

* - The pitch is the soccer field. We soccer experts often use terms like that.