"Come, Watson, come!" he cried. "The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!" — Arthur Conan Doyle

We had got as far as this, when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander, which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my country trip, and it must be confessed that, however enjoyable, my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own.

I have never been in Africa in my life, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Busybody Holmes!

What I know is unofficial; what he knows is official.