Of the many cases and adventures on which I have accompanied my friend Buck Duckett, there are few I can recall that vexed him and tested him as arduously of the matter involving “Clump” Hardley and his trouser predicament that scandalized the entire country. The features of this particular situation were so shocking and so outré that it would be irresponsible of me not to chronicle Buck Duckett’s methods and my own small contributions that led to the astonishing revelations that had gripped the papers for months.
It was a languid autumn afternoon when I found myself near the flat I used to share with Buck Duckett. My medical slapping practice had been growing and I spent most of my days whacking people with Railway Spine and headbutting sufferers of various Suppressed Gouts, the result of which was that I had seen far less of Duckett than I cared to. A fortuitous housecall to kick a man in the spleen took me back to the old neighborhood in Indianapolis’s Fog District, and I decided to call on my old friend.
When I arrived, Buck Duckett was sitting on a couch, his brow furrowed, staring at a pair of trousers with a curious design riding up the hem. “Ah, Pladd, it is good for you to look in on me after vigorously kicking that rheumy man with the cat over on St. Gabbert’s street. I see that the practice is doing well, although you do not seem to believe it yourself. You also left your copy of The Medical Pugilist at Mr Dunnet’s shop,” he said. Even though I had lived with Duckett and saw his methods amaze and stupefy his callers, it was still mystifying when he turned his attention to me, and, despite my attempt to reign in my look of befuddlement, he still whirled on me and began his instruction.
“Pladd surely by now you are familiar with the processes and the simple logic that reveals everything to me with a quick glance at your trousers,” Duckett said. “The seams on your bottom are strained in a way that only comes from vigorous kicking, which I understand is still the latest treatment for rheumatisms. And surely you can see your legs are covered in cat hairs, while you would never keep such an animal at home. The bottoms of your cuffs are stained with gravel that you only see from public works projects, precisely like the one that has the footpaths on St. Gabbert street in a rough condition,” he said, while loading up his lip with mouth tobacco.
“As for the state of your practice,” he continued, “it’s all written there on your slacks.” The backs of your legs, where one expects to see an indication from a hard cab bench, are smooth, which means that you can afford the more expensive, plusher cabs. And your trousers have been let out some, which suggests that you are prospering. But on the other hand, you have not replaced them. In fact, I see numerous small repairs that show that you have kept them, which indicates that you don’t trust your successes and are reluctant to spend money on new clothes.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “But how could you know about the periodical?”
“That is simple,” he said, before spitting a long spray of oral tobaccular juice into a filthy jug he kept for this purpose. “Your pocket reveals the unmistakable shape of Dr Wedcrumb’s Pipe Tobacco, which was featured in an advertisement as the most health-ful pipe tobacco for the vigorous-lunged man in the Medical Pugilist, which I can tell from the protrusion and the small ink stain that you had been carrying around in your right rear pocket. You certainly consulted it when you stopped at the only tobacconist you would visit in this neighborhood, which would undoubtedly be Mr Dunnet. It is all clear from your trousers. You can read them like a newspaper. I believe that the key to understanding a man is in Gluteal Phrenology, the study of the ridges and dimples in his buttocks, but it is nearly impossible to examine a live subject this way. Therefore one must turn to the trousers. In fact, I have written a monograph on it.”
A sudden rasp at the door interrupted the conversation. “Oh, that must be Inspector Fistclough.”
Inspector Fistclough of the N.C.A.A. had worked there with Duckett until Duckett, dissatisfied with the organization’s unscientific method and the new name, image, and likeness policies, left to work as a consultant to pursue trouser related intrigues. But from time to time, Fistclough still asked for Duckett’s advice on more peculiar matters.
Firstclough was a tall, gangly man whose scalp, despite his young age, was advancing on all fronts against his hair and had two tufts pinned into a defensive position just above the ears. Normally a robust man who was all too eager to throw about ruffians who had run afoul of N.C.A.A. policies– he once chased an entire triangular weightlifting team who had been accepting free single-strap singlets into the side of a train– but today he stood before Duckett as a pale and ghostly spectre.
“Have you seen anything in those trousers, Mr Duckett?” Fistclough said, rubbing his arm.
“I do believe these trousers reveal some points of interest, but perhaps some fresh details will come to light if you recite the tale again, this time to Dr Pladd,” Duckett said.
“It is still the most puzzling thing I have ever seen,” said Inspector Fistclough. Now he began rubbing his leg. “We were down on the docks. You see, Dr Pladd, since the new policy, the athletes are now allowed to sell and receive shipments of trousers, short pants, breeches, and pantaloons, but the N.C.A.A. inspects processes, and stamps each article to make everything is above board. No more chasing croquet teams getting free trews into the moors. Two days ago, we received a shipment of trousers. Ordinary, except for a strange stripe along the hemline. They were for the great rugbyist 'Clump' Hardley.”
“The one who broke the record for most bashings in a single thrashing?” I asked. His feats had been featured in all of the papers.
“The very same, Dr Pladd,” the inspector said. “The records all appeared to be in order, so we quickly checked to see if the trousers were concealing anything.”
“And what sorts of objects to you suspect may be secreted within the them?” Duckett asked.
“We see all various manner of things,” Inspector Fistclough said. “Precious stones, curios, notes. Once we found entire sets of illegal trousers sewn into the very slacks we were inspecting.”
“We moved the crates to a staging area behind the docks and fitted with a paper seal. That is standard procedure. The area remains under constant watch.”
“But not constant this time,” Duckett said.
The inspector lowered his head. “No I am afraid not this time. I called Sergeant Bithe off his post. In one of the crates, the trousers seemed to be moving oddly, nearly writhing. I was afraid that they could be concealing snakes. This had happened several weeks ago. A junior inspector had been badly squeezed and we needed our top bludgeoning unit to free him. I needed all available men with sticks.”
“But you did not find any snakes,” Duckett said.
“No sir,” replied Fistclough. There appeared to be some sort of machinery manipulating the trousers to make it seem like it could be snakes. Bithe was gone for maybe three minutes at most. The rest of the time the crate of trousers was under his watch. But when we went to move them later, the crates were light. We opened them and they were gone. Every last pair.”
“As you can see, Dr Pladd, a very curious set of circumstances,” Duckett said.
“Mr Duckett, please tell me you have unearthed some sort of clue to retrieve these trousers," the Inspector said, scratching at his face.
“Inspector Fistclough, there are certain points of interest in this case that I believe may lend themselves to a scientific explanation. There is only one person I believe fiendish and daring enough to have seized this shipment in this way, one person cunning enough to make a mockery of the entire N.C.A.A. and Mr “Clump” Hardley. Dr Pladd, I believe this may be the work of Jacopo Manheaven. The Napoleon of Pants."
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