The urge to write struck at the most inconvenient times. Once on, the spigot of inspiration would not be shut off; if he were not to forget all his ideas, they must be written down as soon as they flashed into his brain. Watson scribbled madly for some minutes, trying to keep up with the flood, and by the time it had ebbed to a manageable flow his hand was cramping up. He massaged it, wishing fervently for the gift of ambidexterity.
Suddenly his head snapped up, and he took on the look of a convict who has forgotten that today he is to be executed. He slapped his pen down on the desk, narrowly missed spilling the ink-bottle over his newly wrought pages, and rushed down seventeen steps three at a time. A cab was waiting outside the door, and he somehow managed to leap in, shout the address, and throw the fee up to the driver at the same time. Just as he realized he had used sovereigns, not shillings, the horses were whipped up almost to a gallop and the vehicle sped madly over the cobbles. Watson had time to whisper a few fervent prayers, and then they were there.
He smiled, straightened his cravat one last time, and started down the aisle to claim his blushing bride.