Post by drakeborough on Nov 23, 2019 11:39:53 GMT
The name "Burlap-Bones" is an obvious parody of "Sherlock Holmes", and this is evident since he is a detective, has an assistant named Watson, and has the stereotypical iconography associated to Holmes: a coat and deerstalker hat, a curved pipe and a magnifying glass.
The needle is a reference to Holmes's drug habit that he displayed at the beginning of the series, though he later quit. Here is, for eample, the incipit of the second novel, The Sign of the Four (1890):
The line "Quick Watson, the needle" does not appear in any Sherlock Holmes novel or short story written by his creator Arthur Conan Doyle, and for a good reason: as we can see from the dialogue quoted above, Watson disapproved of Holmes' drug habit, so he definitely would not have helped him with the needle.
In fact, the line first appeared in The Red Mill, an operetta written by Victor Herbert, with a libretto by Henry Blossom. It debuted in Broadway in 1906, and the line is uttered by a character impersonating Sherlock Holmes. The line has since been used or parodied many times, and it must have been easily recognizable for readers by the time Gottfredson used it in 1930. A famous variation of the line is "Oh, Watson, the needle!": it is used in the closing scene of the 1939 movie "The Hound of the Baskervilles", the first entry in a series of 13 films starring Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Watson.
The needle is a reference to Holmes's drug habit that he displayed at the beginning of the series, though he later quit. Here is, for eample, the incipit of the second novel, The Sign of the Four (1890):
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject; but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.
"It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?"
"No, indeed," I answered brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."
"But consider!" I said earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable."
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject; but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.
"It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?"
"No, indeed," I answered brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."
"But consider!" I said earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable."
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."
In fact, the line first appeared in The Red Mill, an operetta written by Victor Herbert, with a libretto by Henry Blossom. It debuted in Broadway in 1906, and the line is uttered by a character impersonating Sherlock Holmes. The line has since been used or parodied many times, and it must have been easily recognizable for readers by the time Gottfredson used it in 1930. A famous variation of the line is "Oh, Watson, the needle!": it is used in the closing scene of the 1939 movie "The Hound of the Baskervilles", the first entry in a series of 13 films starring Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Watson.
I did a search for "Quick, Watson, the needle", and it turns out it's a quote often attributed to Sherlock Holmes -- but not actually said by him. It's a reference to Holmes' frequent use of morphine and cocaine. Here's the full explanation from an article on 
