Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 2, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 866. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
CRISTOBAL THE CATALAN.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
A cell in the great Morro Castle of Havana was a strange place for a boy
of fourteen; but there sat young Cristobal Nunez on the cold stone
floor, his face hidden in his hands, and bitter tears trickling between
his fingers. He was a small boy for fourteen, and not dark, like the
Cubans, but fair as any sunburnt American boy.
He was not alone in the cell, for it was a great damp vault twenty feet
wide by a hundred feet long, with an arched roof of stone, the lower
part of a storehouse standing just within the outer wall of the
fortress. He was only one of the 108 political prisoners confined in
that unhealthy vault, where was not a cot for them to lie upon, nor a
chair or bench to sit upon.
"Cheer up, my son," said a well-dressed elderly gentleman, one of his
fellow-prisoners, stooping beside him, and laying his hand kindly on
Cristobal's shoulder; "these dark days must have an end; and tears, at
any rate, will do no good. You are young to be engaged in this
business."
"I am not engaged in this business, señor," Cristobal quickly answered,
brushing his hand across his eyes and looking up. "I am no insurgent; I
am a Spaniard, a Catalan, and know nothing about rebellions. And it is
not for myself that I shed tears, but for my young sister, who is alone
on this strange island, with no one to take care of her."
As he spoke of his sister the young Catalan again buried his face in his
hands, and his little frame shook.
"This is strange," said the gentleman; and he seated himself on the
floor beside Cristobal, and kindly drew the young Spaniard's smooth
cheek against his shoulder. "If you are a Catalan, and no insurgent, how
do you come to be here?"
Though the cell was crowded with prisoners, there was no danger of
interruption, for each was amusing himself in his own way. Some played
games with strange Spanish cards, on which were pictures of swords and
men and horses; some read books, for no newspapers were allowed them;
some sang brave songs to keep their spirits up; and others, sickened by
the bad air and bad food, lay stretched upon the stones, groaning.
"They have made a mistake," Cristobal answered, as soon as he was able
to speak. "I am only a poor boy from Barcelona, trying to take my young
sister to our uncle in Cienfuegos. But they have arrested me for an
insurgent, and what is to become of my poor sister? We were in a
cane-field only twenty-five miles from Cienfuegos, when they tore me
away from her; and there I had to leave her, without a friend on the
island, unless she finds our uncle. Oh, señor, what is to become of
her?"
"They have made many mistakes," the kindly old gentleman replied,
ignoring Cristobal's last question. "Here in this miserable cell are old
men and young--merchants, professional men, clerks, laborers, and what
not--at least half of whom are entirely innocent. It is one of the
misfortunes of war that the innocent must suffer with the guilty. But if
you are a Catalan from Barcelona, tell me how you come to be in Cuba,
and at such a time."
"My mother knew nothing about the troubles in Cuba," Cristobal answered.
"She died in Barcelona four months ago, telling us to come to her
brother, our uncle, in Cienfuegos. There was barely enough money left to
bring us in a sailing vessel to Havana, and from here I wrote and wrote
to our uncle, but received no answer, so I am afraid he must be in the
field. We started to walk--"
"To walk to Cienfuegos!" the gentleman exclaimed; "a hundred and twenty
miles! How old is your sister?"
"She is only twelve," Cristobal answered, sadly; "but she has the sense
of a grown woman--a great deal more than I have."
"And then?" the old man said, encouragingly.
"We walked as far as Ysabel," Cristobal went on, "seventy-five miles
from here, and there, by accident, I got a situation in a small store.
For nearly three months I was able to take care of my sister; but then
my employer was arrested for a rebel, and we started on for Cienfuegos."
"Poor little chaps!" exclaimed the old gentleman; "fourteen and twelve;
in a strange country; no money or friends! Well?"
"There is not much more," the young Catalan answered. "We were within
twenty-five miles of Cienfuegos, and at noon we went into a small patch
of cane for our dinner, for sugar-cane was almost our only food. It was
part of a great field, but all the cane had been burned but one little
corner. We made a spark of fire to boil our coffee, and while it boiled
there came along a squad of Spanish troops. They saw the smoke, and
accused me of firing the field, and in a minute they had handcuffs on me
and tore me away. They took me to Sagua la Grande, and in a few days I
was brought here in a steamer. But what they did with me is nothing.
What can have become of my poor sister?"
"My son," said the old gentleman, devoutly making the sign of the cross
upon his forehead, "your sister is in stronger hands than yours. The
Friend of the Fatherless will take care of her. And mark my words, my
poor boy, it will be through your sister that you will be released from
this unjust imprisonment. For yourself you can do nothing, nor can I aid
you in any way. But she is your sister, and at liberty. She will go on
foot to the Governor-General, perhaps; perhaps she will besiege every
public office in Havana. I cannot say what course she will take; but if
she has the wisdom you give her credit for, she will never rest till she
sets you free. You Catalans are called 'the Yankees of Spain,' and a
Catalonian girl will never desert her brother."
"Every Sunday and Wednesday," he continued, "the friends of prisoners
are permitted to visit them here. It may not be next Sunday or next
Wednesday, but on some Sunday or some Wednesday you will hear from your
sister."
As he arose from his uncomfortable seat the old gentleman laid his hand
upon the young prisoner's forehead, and muttered a few words that led
Cristobal to believe him a priest in disguise, as in fact he was.
But Wednesdays and Sundays came and went, and Cristobal heard no tidings
of his sister. The coming of the visitors, however, made an agreeable
break in the terrible monotony. On visiting-days the prisoners' friends
were carried across the harbor from Havana in row-boats, and after
landing on the pebble-paved road at the base of the fortress, went up
through the great portal, where a hundred Spanish soldiers were
constantly on guard. There they were formed in line, only one at a time
being allowed to approach the barred front of the vault.
Cristobal had spent three weeks of misery in his dismal cell, and one
Wednesday afternoon he lay half stretched out on the cold floor watching
the visitors and listening to their conversation. They brought all the
comforts to their friends that the guards would allow--baskets of food,
blankets to lie upon, books, clean linen, medicines--and every package
was carefully examined by the guard before it was passed into the cell.
He saw a well-dressed young Cuban step up in turn behind the bar with
nothing in his hands but three long stalks of sugar-cane tied together.
He could hardly believe his ears when the guard called,
"Cristobal Nunez!"
Cristobal sprang to his feet, and made his way up to the front. He was
sure that he had never seen his visitor before, and he could not
understand why the Cuban, instead of speaking to him at once, stood
looking him straight in the eyes, as if he would look through him, and
then looked intently at the sugar-canes--at the top cane, Cristobal
thought, the one that was gnarled and bent.
"Your sister sends you these," the young Cuban said at length, handing
the bundle to the guard for examination. "And be careful of your teeth,
Cristobal. Our Cuban cane is tough and hard to bite in March."
The guard twirled the bundle of canes in his hand, and laughed
derisively at the meanness of the gift as he passed it through the bars
to the prisoner. Even some of the other prisoners laughed to think that
one of their number was so poor that his friends could send him nothing
but a few canes.
Being one of "the Yankees of Spain," Cristobal knew on the moment that
his sister had not sent him sugar-canes merely for the sake of the
sweet.
"Be careful of my teeth!" he repeated to himself, with the canes lying
across his lap. "That means something, for Maria knows my teeth are all
right, and able to chew most anything. And it was this top cane the
Cuban looked at so hard--the crooked one."
After a few moments' thought he took out his knife and cut a piece about
a foot long from the larger end of the crooked cane, intending, at any
rate, to eat it, or to solve the mystery if there was a mystery.
At almost the first bite the cane cracked like a hollow reed, showing
that the interior had been cut out--for sugar-cane in its natural state
is very hard and solid.
Watching his chance when no one was observing him, he split the hollowed
cane open with his hands, and saw in the cavity a small packet wrapped
in paper. Quick as a flash he slipped the bit of cane into his pocket,
and worked with his fingers to release the packet. It was heavy when he
got it loose, and was evidently a roll of coins--gold coins, the weight
told him. He was afraid to take them out to look, but he hurriedly
removed the wrapping, sure of finding a message upon it. And he was not
disappointed, for upon the inner side of the little paper he found this
note:
"DEAR KIT,--Here are five American gold eagles to help you out of
prison.
"I am with kind friends--Americanos--on the Buena Vista plantation,
near La Flora, district de Cienfuegos. They have furnished the
money. Our uncle has been shot.
"When you get out go to Numero 19, Calle O'Reilly, Havana, and ask
for Pedro. He will help get you here.
"YOUR LOVING SISTER."
Cristobal could hardly help shouting when he finished reading the note;
his sister safe, money to help him, and a friend in Havana to help him
through the lines! For many days after the arrival of the sugar-cane it
was a mystery to Cristobal how his sister had found friends so quickly
in a strange country; but now it is a mystery no longer.
When her brother was dragged away and she was left alone in the
cane-field, little Maria Nunez first shed tears, and then stamped her
feet with rage. Then she took counsel with herself. She could not stay
there alone in the cane-field; she could not travel alone in roads
filled with soldiers and lawless men. Surely there must be some good
Christian on that island who would give her shelter; and she dropped
down upon her knees in the muddy field and fingered the cheap beads that
hung about her neck, and made many signs of the cross upon her little
chest and forehead.
Far away across the blackened fields she saw a roof of red tiles. There
must be a house, she knew, under the roof, and she started in that
direction.
On the broad front gallery of the house sat Señor Walter Pickard, of
Ohio, the owner of the seven thousand acres of land comprising the Buena
Vista plantation, which, in times of peace, produces its fifteen
thousand hogsheads of sugar every year. There is one larger sugar
plantation in the world, and only one. On one side of him sat the Señora
Pickard, also of Ohio, and on the other was the young Señor Pickard,
aged seventeen. The three were looking across the lane at the great
"works" that should have been alive with men and the hum of machinery,
but which stood deserted and silent, its walls riddled with bullets;
looking over the seven thousand acres of land that should have been rich
with cane, but which lay charred with fire and trampled by troops,
ruined for many years to come.
"Who is that pretty little girl I saw you taking out toward the quarters
a few minutes ago?" the Señora Pickard asked of the butler through the
open window.
"A little Spanish girl, madame," replied the French butler, "who says
that her brother has just been arrested for a rebel, and who came to us
for shelter."
"Well, I say, we're not such foreigners yet but we can give shelter to a
little girl!" exclaimed the Señor Pickard, in remarkably good English
for a Cuban planter. He knew the danger of harboring the relative of a
suspected rebel.
"Bring her to me," said the Señora, calmly.
The mistress of such a plantation is a queen in her own dominions, and a
minute later Maria Nunez stood before her, telling her sad story, much
as Cristobal told it to the kind old gentleman in Morro Castle.
Perhaps it was because he was an Ohio boy, and not a real señor at all,
that the young Señor Pickard grew excited while the story was a-telling,
and walked nervously up and down the gallery. Or it might have been
because Maria was a remarkably pretty little Spaniard, with the dark
flashing eyes of her countrywoman, and their thick black hair and rich
complexion and delicate features. Her little story was soon told, and
she stood there looking doubly pretty in her excitement and grief.
"You shall stay with me, you poor child, till the times are settled,"
said the señora, still calmly, and in good Spanish. "Alphonse, call my
maid."
"Is that all?" exclaimed the young señor, in English, looking as if he
had determined to drive out the Spanish troops single-handed. "Aren't
you going to get the girl's brother out of prison? He will be sent to
the Morro, and you know what will get him out of there. Can't Pedro--"
The elder señor stamped his foot impatiently.
"Have you no more sense than to mention that name?" he exclaimed. "Keep
quiet, and leave this thing to me. For just about one York shilling I'd
hoist the stars and stripes here and fortify the place. I am growing
sicker of such doings every day. Go and tell Henry to have his horse
ready to start for Havana at eight o'clock to-night."
Ignorant of course of these things, Cristobal had to devise a way of
using his money for his liberation. One of those golden eagles, he knew,
represented four months' pay of any of the soldiers who were guarding
him. There was one young soldier in the guard, a boy of scarcely twenty,
barefoot and ragged, whom he had marked long before as a fellow Catalan.
For days this young fellow was kept at other work, but at length he
appeared on guard again before the bars of the cell.
Cristobal's heart beat fast when he saw who was pacing up and down just
outside the bars. Pressing up to the front of the cell, he leaned for
some time against the bars without speaking, and then, as the young
soldier passed, he asked, softly,
"Cataluna?"
"No," said the guard; "Asturias."
"So much the better!" Cristobal said to himself; "it is only proper that
a Catalan should buy an Asturian. He is mine, for I shall buy him with
gold."
For some minutes more he stood leaning against the bars, without saying
another word, biding his time. When a favorable moment came, he took one
of the golden eagles between his thumb and forefinger, and held it in
front of his breast, where no one in the cell could see it, and there
was no one outside but the young guard.
Up and down paced the soldier, his eyes apparently straight in front of
him. But somehow with each walk past he was a little closer to the bars.
Seeing this encouraging sign, Cristobal took out another eagle, and held
up two. By that time the young guard was so close that Cristobal might
have touched him as he passed. After several more turns the soldier
raised his eyebrows questioningly as he passed.
There were no other prisoners close up against the bars, but some were
near enough to make great caution necessary. Only a single short
sentence could be spoken at each passing of the sentinel.
"The first means through the portal," Cristobal whispered, as the
soldier went up.
There was not a sign to show that he had been heard or understood.
"The second means a boat on the beach," Cristobal whispered, as the
soldier went down.
Still the sentinel's eyes looked dead ahead; but before he was past the
bars he shifted his musket from one shoulder to the other, and in doing
so the stock struck lightly against one of the bars. Perhaps it was
accident; but Cristobal, being one of the Yankees of Spain, did not
think so. He instantly knew that it meant, "I cannot get you through
these bars." That was an objection that he was ready to meet; and when
the guard passed again he hurriedly whispered,
"I can squeeze between the bars; I have tried it."
Still the sentinel looked dead ahead; but for the next few minutes as he
passed he was saying something softly to himself every time he put his
left foot foremost, just as a drill-master says, "left, left, left!"
What he said softly to himself was, "dos," "dos," "dos," meaning, in
English, "two," "two," "two."
"Dos!" Cristobal said to himself; "that means the two coins; both
propositions accepted;" and he left the bars and went back into the
darkness, and sat down satisfied.
When he offered that night to share his little store of gold with the
kind old gentleman, his friend patted him upon the head.
"Bless your kind little heart!" said he. "I have no need of gold." Then
removing his hat, he added, "Kneel, my son."
When Cristobal arose, after the priestly blessing, he noticed that the
top of his friend's head was shaven bare, and the brief benediction made
him feel stronger for the night's dangerous work.
For four days and nights he lay hidden in a big closet in the attic of
No. 19 in the Calle O'Reilly, and then a Spanish pass was given him that
carried him safely through the lines to La Flora. And Pedro? Pedro must
remain a mystery till that cruel war is over. Americans are a people of
great resources, and can often send their agents even within the walls
of Spanish castles. It may safely be told that Cristobal and his sister
are together on the Buena Vista plantation, and that Señor Pickard has
not yet hoisted the stars and stripes and fortified the place.
HOW MAGIC IS MADE.
BY HENRY HATTON.
IV.
One of the best tricks of De Kolta is called, "The Miraculous Production
of Flowers." It may be exhibited on the stage or in the drawing-room,
and is equally effective in either place. The performer shows an
umbrella from which the covering has been removed and its place supplied
by multicolored ribbons, which go from rib to rib, leaving a space
between. He then opens this umbrella, and stands it upside down on the
stage, resting the ferrule end in a piece of metal tubing, which, in
turn, is supported by a stand. He also shows two or three empty shallow
wicker baskets, and a sheet of heavy brown paper. His arms being bared
to prevent the possibility of anything being concealed in his sleeves,
he folds, or rather twists, a sheet of paper into a cone or cornucopia.
Every one knows this cone is empty, as they have seen it made, and yet
the performer shakes from it enough flowers to fill not only the
baskets, but also the inverted umbrella. Every once in a while, when the
supply of flowers is apparently exhausted, the paper is opened and shown
to be empty, and yet, when again rolled up, the flowers pour from it in
as great volume as at first.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
The flowers in this case are emphatically _spring_ flowers, though it
may be truthfully said that "the flowers that bloom in the spring have
nothing to do with the case." They are made in a variety of shapes, but
the most simple form is, to my thinking, the best, and any one can make
them by following these instructions:
[Illustration: FIG 2.]
Cut a number of pieces of red, blue, yellow, or pink tissue-paper of the
shape shown in Fig. 2, and an equal number of that in Fig. 3. Fold them
at the lines A A and B B, shown by the dotted lines, so that C and C and
D and D come together. Then cut some flat thin spring steel, not highly
tempered, into strips about one-eighth of an inch in width and from an
inch and three-quarters to two inches and a quarter in length, according
to the size of the "flower." The latter, for the drawing-room, should be
about two and a half inches long and two inches at the widest part,
while for the stage they are best when three and a quarter long and
proportionately wide. The strips of steel must next be cut in two the
longer way, until within about a quarter of an inch of one end, and
these halves must be bent outward in opposite directions, so that they
assume the position shown in Fig. 4.
[Illustration: FIG 3.]
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
[Illustration: PAPER LEAF.]
Place the spring between the folds of Fig. 3, so that the arms will lie
on F F, and then paste them firmly down by placing over a strip of paper
of the same color as the "flower." Next put Fig. 2 between Fig. 3; paste
the points C C to E E and G G to B B, and let them dry thoroughly. The
flower has now assumed the shape shown in Fig. 5. All that it needs to
complete it are two green leaves of paper, silk, or muslin, which are to
be pasted one on each side at the smaller end. To make much display,
about five hundred of these flowers ought to be used.
[Illustration: FIG 5.]
Having made the flowers, the next thing to learn is how to get them into
the paper horn without being seen. Some performers load the cone--to
load being the technical name for filling--by simply holding a bundle of
flowers in the right hand, and deliberately placing the hand inside the
cone, under pretence of taking out a flower, but that is anything but
artistic.
Do up three bundles of, say, seventy-five flowers each. To do these up
place them between two oblong pieces of thin green card-board, putting
an elastic over the longer way; and that this may not slip, have nicks
in the ends. Pressing these ends will cause the card-boards to bulge out
in the centre, and allow the flowers to escape. Two of these bundles
must have loops of rather stiff wire run through the elastics, so that
when the bundles lie on the table the loops stand up. These bundles are
laid at the back of the table, behind a basket, at the performer's left.
The third bundle, also on the table, is a little to the right of the
others.
The performer first bares his arms, then rolls up his cone and throws it
on the floor, mouth toward the audience, or lays it on a table. Now
picking up the third bundle with his left hand, and putting it, almost
in the same movement, under the bottom of a basket which he picks up, he
advances to his audience to show that the basket is empty. Returning to
the stage, he lays the basket on his table, retaining the bundle of
flowers in his left hand. Then picking up the cone by the smaller end,
he remarks, "The hands are empty." As he says this he passes the cone to
the left hand, which he places inside the mouth, thus dropping the
bundle in, shows the right hand empty, and taking the cone in that hand
again, shows the left also empty. Putting both hands around the lower
part of the cone, he squeezes it and the card-boards, and the flowers
being released, he begins to pour them into the basket.
As the flowers fall out, he pretends to guide them with his left hand,
and this gives him an opportunity to catch the wire loop of one of the
bundles on the table between his fingers.
When the cone is emptied, the performer unrolls it and straightens out
the paper, prior to working in the second bundle. This bundle,
understand, is back of the left-hand fingers. Taking the sheet of paper
at one edge by the tips of the fingers of that hand, and letting the
paper fall in front, he smoothes it with the right hand, and presently
seizing the lower edge by that hand, he brings the sheet back over his
left hand, thus leaving the second bundle inside the cone thus formed.
This is a remarkably neat and clever move, almost impossible to detect,
and is well worth the little practice needed to acquire it.
The cone is now emptied, and the third bundle picked up in the same way
as the second, and the cone again formed over the back of the hand. The
flowers for the umbrella are loaded into the cone in an altogether
different way, but one quite as difficult to detect if well done.
About three hundred flowers are placed between two sheets of stiff
card-board, and these are tied together in a single bow-knot with silk
floss, the end which unties the knot being allowed to hang down, and
having a tiny shoe-button fastened to it, so that it may be found
easily. Hanging from one of the pieces of card-board is a loop of strong
black thread. This bundle is placed in the inside right breast pocket of
the performer's coat, and the loose end of the loop is passed over a
button or small hook sewn on the vest.
To load the bundle into the cone, the performer holds the open flat
sheet of paper in his right hand, which hangs at his side. Turning it
front and back, he says, "Absolutely empty, as you all can see." And
while his audience have their eyes fixed on it, his left thumb finds the
loop, and passing through it, lifts it off the button. "I shall hold it
away from my body," he continues, and as he says this he raises the
sheet in front of him so that it nearly covers his breast. As he does
this, almost simultaneously, his left hand grasps the upper edge of the
sheet about the centre, and thus pulls the bundle out and holds it
dangling behind the sheet. The left hand, still holding bundle and
paper, is pushed well out, so that the sheet is not near the body. The
right hand now seizes the upper right corner of the paper, and drawing
it towards him, the performer twists it into a cone. His hand is thus
left inside, and as he withdraws it, what more natural than to catch
hold of the shoe-button, give a steady pull, and release the flowers?
Walking round and round the umbrella, the performer continues to shake
flowers from the cone until the novel receptacle is filled.
The professional conjurer has large deep pockets inside the breast of
his coat, the mouth towards the front; but as many of my readers will
not care to have specially prepared coats, they may substitute a large
oblong black bag, which can be fastened to the coat by small black
safety-pins. The mouth should come within about two inches of the front.
Similar but smaller pockets can be pinned to the back of the trousers
leg, when they will be covered by the coat tails, but will prove handy
for small articles.
Some conjurers allow themselves to be firmly tied with ropes, and yet
while in this condition perform feats that apparently require the free
use of both hands. These, however, are always done behind a curtain or
other screen. Just how this is done I may explain later, but for the
present here is a very good substitute. The performer locks his hands,
and his crossed thumbs are tied tightly together with a long strong
cord, the ends of which are held by two of the audience. A soft hat or
handkerchief is thrown over the hands, and almost instantly one is waved
in the air. It is as quickly thrust back, and on removing the covering
the knots are found as firmly tied as at first.
There are two ways of doing this, both of which I shall explain.
[Illustration: FIG. 6.]
In the one method, when the hands are brought together the forefinger of
the left hand is on top; then follow the right forefinger, the left
second finger, the right _third_ finger, the left third finger, the
right little finger, and last the left little finger, as shown in Fig.
6, the right second finger being inside the hands. When the cord is
placed under the crossed thumbs, preparatory to tying them, this right
second finger, which will not be missed from the clasped hands, grasps
the cord and holds it down, thus _gaining slack_ which is at the bottom
of every tie exhibited from the time of the Davenport brothers to the
present day. Of course with so much slack it is a very easy matter to
release the thumbs, and the next moment to present them apparently
tightly tied. At the conclusion of the trick the cord must be gathered
up and put out of the way, lest some of the audience should get hold of
it, and thus discover the secret.
In the second method the palms of the hands are placed together and the
thumbs held up. Then a rope, about the size of an ordinary sash cord, is
laid just above the fork of the thumbs. The ends are given to two
committee-men chosen from the audience, who are asked to pull, so as to
convince themselves that the rope is sound; then the thumbs are crossed
and pressed down on the rope, which is tied in a double knot.
As in the first method, a handkerchief is thrown across the hands, and
again as in the first method the hands are rapidly freed, and just as
rapidly tied again.
In doing the trick this way the slack is gained just after the
committee-men are asked to pull on the rope. At that moment the hands
are held about two inches apart, and just then the thumbs squeeze hold
of the rope, and bringing the hands closely together, the slack is
caught between the palms, the crossed thumbs hiding all signs of it.
I once saw a man who claimed to do certain wonders "by the help of
unseen powers," but as two of these can be produced by the most ordinary
human power, I give them here, so that any of my readers who is so
disposed can set up in the "seer" business for himself.
The performer hands out some half-sheets of note-paper, measuring, say,
4-1/2 by 7 inches. These he requests the audience to fold, as nearly as
possible, into four equal strips, each of which will then measure 1-3/4
by 4-1/2 inches. These strips he distributes among the company, who are
asked to write a name of man or woman on each strip, which is then to be
folded once or twice, and thrown into a hat, when all the strips are to
be thoroughly mixed. The performer then places his hand in the hat, and
selecting one strip, announces that the name in it is that of a man or
of a woman, as the case may be. So he continues until each slip has been
taken out.
[Illustration: FIG. 7.]
Although the performer has nothing to do with cutting the paper, yet the
trick depends altogether on the way in which it is cut. Reference to
Fig. 7 will explain this at a glance. It will be seen that if the paper
is cut into four strips, two of these, No. 1 and No. 4, will each have a
sharp edge, A, and a rough edge, B, while Nos. 2 and 3 will have two
rough edges. In handing out the papers the performer always gives a
sharp-edged strip with the request, "Please write the name of a man on
this," while the rough-edged ones are given for the names of women. When
he puts his hand into the hat he has merely to run a finger over the
edges of a strip, and he can at once determine whether the name on it is
that of a man or of a woman, even without the aid of "unseen powers."
For his next phenomenon--by which name he attempted to dignify his
tricks--he required the assistance of his wife. She was conducted to a
room on another floor of the house, and while she was thus out of sight
and out of hearing the Professor introduced a pack of cards. One of the
company drew a card, and showed it to the rest of those present, the
Professor included. Then the gentleman who drew the card wrote on a
piece of thick paper the question. "What is the name of the card drawn?"
This was placed in an opaque envelope, so that the writing could not
possibly be read; the envelope was sealed, and the Professor addressed
it to his wife. She placed it for a moment against her forehead, and
then seizing a blank card, wrote on it, "The card chosen was the eight
of hearts," which was correct.
The secret is in the way the address is written. By previous arrangement
it is understood that the suits of the cards are to run as follows:
spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds. Should a spade be drawn, a period
is placed after the first word of the address; if a heart, after the
second; if a club, after the third; if a diamond, no period appears in
the first line of the address. For the number of the suit the cards run
in their regular order, ace, deuce, etc., the Jack counting 11, the
Queen 12, the King 13. To designate the suit, an initial letter is
introduced in the address, the one used being the one in numerical order
coming _after_ the number of the suit. Thus, in the first case, the card
being the eight of hearts, the address was written
Mrs Sarah. I Smith
--the period after _Sarah_ designated the suit, while _I_, the ninth
letter of the alphabet, showed the number of spots on the card.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857.
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER XI.
Flea's horse threw up his head with a jerk, and wheeled partly around at
the jerk upon the bridle; his rider flushed crimson, then grew white.
"Father!" she gasped. "What did you say? Miss Emily! _my_ Miss Emily is
going to marry that man?"
"So it is said, lassie. I'm afraid it is true. There has been talk of it
all winter, but I don't think the Major had any idea of how things were
going until lately. Early in May Mr. Tayloe left Greenfield and went to
board at Mr. Thompson's. Of course his moving from Greenfield, where he
was so intimate, set tongues wagging; and then it came out that he and
Miss Emily were engaged, and that her father opposed the match. I have
asked no questions, but I cannot help seeing that the Major is not
himself, and how he is ageing."
"I don't see how Miss Emily can disobey such a good father," said Flea,
indignantly. "His little finger-nail is worth more than forty thousand
Jack Tayloes. If she knows how her father feels, she will surely give up
all notion of that little--monster!"
Her father looked amused.
"He isn't a monster, but a well-born, well-educated gentleman, not
bad-looking, and with a voice like a church organ. Your mother says he
sang his way into Miss Emily's heart. I wonder the Major didn't suspect
what might come of all their music and horseback rides and walks
together; but he is so open-hearted and aboveboard himself that he
probably set it down to young folks' natural enjoyment in each other's
society. It hurts me to see him take it so hard. Miss Emily will be of
age in a few months, and she can then marry anybody she chooses. Except
that he has a hasty temper and an ugly way of showing it, I don't know
that there is anything against him. She will have money enough for both.
Her grandmother left her a nice little fortune, besides what the Major
can give her."
"Nothing against him!" burst forth Flea, passionately. "He is the
wickedest man ever created. Mean, spiteful, deceitful, and cruel as a
tiger. He looks like a tiger when his eyebrows draw together and his
mouth draws up and the roots of his nose draw in. To think of his daring
to lift his eyes to my sweet, pretty, darling Miss Emily! If I were her
brother, I'd shoot him sooner than he should have her."
"Lassie! lassie! That is strong language."
"Not half as strong as he deserves, father. You don't guess what a
creature he is. Aunt Jean never wrote to you about it, for she did not
want to distress you; but poor Dee couldn't go to school for a month
after he went to Philadelphia. He had terrible pains in his head and was
sick at the stomach all the time, and she had him examined by a great
doctor there, who said he had been seriously injured by so much beating
on the head--that a little more of it would have made him an idiot. That
monster of cruelty used to whack the poor boy every day with his heavy
ruler, because he was slow at his lessons. Dee cannot study long now
without having a sick headache. He can never be a learned scholar. And I
did _so_ hope he would be a distinguished man! Instead of getting
married, Mr. Tayloe ought to be put into the penitentiary. He deserves
hanging--and worse."
The rush of hot words choked her. Her father patted her shoulder
soothingly.
"Don't take it so to heart, dear child. It isn't like you to fly into
such a passion."
"I never knew that I had a bad temper until he brought it out." Flea
could not be quieted. "He would have made me as wicked as himself if I
hadn't fallen sick from his treatment of me, and then gone home with
Aunt Jean. He will break Miss Emily's heart. He enjoys torturing
helpless things, as a cat likes to torture a mouse. Where is he now that
the school is closed for vacation?"
"I think he has gone home. I have not seen or heard of him for a week
and more."
"I hope he will never come back. I hope he will die while he is away!"
uttered Flea, savagely.
"Fie! fie on you!" said her father, trying to look stern. "You'll make
me afraid of you if you get so bloodthirsty. Never meddle with people's
love-affairs, chick. It's worse than putting your fingers 'twixt bark
and tree. Miss Emily knows her own business, and has a fine high spirit
of her own."
They were at the outer gate of the avenue leading to Greenfield, and he
drew rein.
"Would you mind riding with me as far as the stables? I won't keep you
long. Or, perhaps you will go up to the house and see the ladies? They
always ask kindly after you."
Mrs. Duncombe was not at home, said a small darky who was pretending to
sweep one corner of the piazza. "Miss 'Liza and Miss Em'ly is
out-o'-doors somewhar," he added, staring at her until the round black
eyes almost slipped out of the lids.
"Don't you know me, Peter?" asked Flea, kindly.
"Yaas, 'm. But you done got mighty pretty sence you been away."
Flea's head was higher, her heart and step lighter, with natural
pleasure in the honest praise, as she ran down the steps to look for the
young ladies. She had determined to reason with Miss Emily, and could go
about it in better style as the well-dressed niece of her Philadelphia
aunt than the shabby child of the overseer would have presumed to do.
She was glad she had grown prettier. She wanted to look like a lady.
In crossing the lawn she saw, midway in the broad avenue cutting the
grounds in two, what brought her courage down on the run and her hopes
with it. She turned aside hastily into an arbor thickly draped with
vines to take counsel with herself as to her next movement. Miss Emily,
dressed in white, a garden hat set jauntily above her curls, sat upon a
settee by Mr. Tayloe. Across the avenue Miss Eliza occupied another
settee, and seemed absorbed in a book. Miss Emily was holding a
handkerchief to her eyes, while Mr. Tayloe talked earnestly to her.
Groups of children were playing on the other side of the lawn. Mr.
Tayloe must be pretty confident of his ground to show himself in the
sight of so many people.
After five minutes of embarrassed waiting, Flea was on the point of
going back to her horse unobserved, when Mr. Tayloe got up, stepped
across the avenue, and shook hands in brotherly fashion with Miss Eliza,
then, Miss Emily at his side, strolled down the walk in the direction of
Flea's hiding-place. They passed so near to it that she could have
knocked his hat off with her riding-whip. He was serious, but as bland
as the plait between his eyebrows would allow him to look. He was
talking low and impressively.
"All you have to do is to be resolute," was all Flea could hear.
"That is more easily said than done," Miss Emily began. The rest was
lost to the eavesdropper.
Her blood was at the boiling-point by the time the young lady returned
alone. A smile hovered about her red lips, although her eyes were still
moist. Flea stepped out of the arbor.
"Miss Emily!"
"Mercy on us!" in a faint scream. "Why, it is Flea Grigsby, as sure as
I'm alive! Did you drop from the clouds? How you have grown, and how
_nice_ you look! Ain't you going to kiss me, child?"
The caress was almost wasted upon the excited girl.
"Miss Emily"--driving straight at the point--"I have something
particular to say to you. Won't you come in here?"
Miss Emily followed her into the summer-house, dropped upon a seat, and
drew her dress aside to make room for her guest.
Flea spoke hurriedly, but her voice did not shake. She was too much
wrought up to be diffident. "Miss Emily! they tell me you are going to
marry Mr. Tayloe. You don't know how I love you. I can't remember the
time when I didn't love and almost worship you. You've always been so
kind and sweet that I couldn't have helped loving you even if you hadn't
been so beautiful."
Miss Emily leaned back on the bench, well pleased and smiling.
"Oh, _come_ now, you've learned how to flatter in Philadelphia," she
simpered, hitting Flea with the handkerchief that had wiped the tears
from the blue eyes a little while ago. "And _who_, I should like to
know, has been fibbing to you about my getting married?"
Flea seized upon both the pretty hands, her face one flash of ecstasy.
"I might have known it couldn't be true. Oh-h-h!" heaving a long,
quivering sigh of relief. "If you only knew what I suffered when I heard
you were to marry him! I couldn't bear the thought."
"You jealous little puss!"
Flea had sunk to her knees upon the gravelly floor of the arbor, and was
gazing worshipfully into her idol's face. It was like the coming true of
another fairy dream when the dainty white hands were laid one on each
side of her flashed cheeks, and Miss Emily kissed her between the eyes.
"You unreasonable little _monkey_! Do you want me to die an old _maid_?
I declare"--inspecting the braided front of the habit-waist--"you look
_real_ fashionable. And you used to be _such_ a tomboy that your poor
mother threatened to make oznaburg frocks for you. But go on. Then you
won't let me marry anybody?"
"I didn't mean that," Flea protested. "But I heard that you were engaged
to Mr. Tayloe, and it made me perfectly miserable, and I felt that if I
could talk to you for five minutes you would change your mind. I'm so
happy that it is nothing but a gossip's story."
"What have you against poor Mr. Tayloe besides his admiration for a
foolish little nobody like me?"
Flea raised herself on her knees to bring her eyes on a level with her
companion's. Her young face darkened.
"You are not foolish or a nobody. You would be foolish if you were to
marry that meanest, cruelest, hardest-hearted of all men. And you would
be a nobody--worse than a nobody--when once he had you in his power.
Your brothers can tell you how he used to whip the boys and ferule the
girls' hands until they were blistered, and he grinning all the time. He
tortures people for the love of torturing. He is a bully, and a coward,
and a demon."
"Are you calling Mr. Tayloe all those names?" interposed the listener,
tartly.
"Yes, Miss Em--"
Before she could utter another syllable her idol drew away to get a
better reach, and slapped her with all her might, first upon one cheek,
then upon the other, until her astonished ears rang like an alarm-bell,
then pushed her off so violently that she fell backward to the ground.
Springing up, wild with shock and horror of it all, she faced a
red-haired fury with glaring eyes and distorted features.
"You impudent, low-lived minx!" said tones as vulgar as those of a
scolding negress. "You ought to be tied up and whipped until you take
back every word you have said. Who are _you_ that you come here to
insult a gentleman in a lady's hearing? This comes of my taking notice
of a low-down overseer's daughter, who is meaner than the dirt under my
feet! Begone! and if you ever show your face here again I'll set the
dogs on you!"
Flea did not quite know where she was or what she was doing until she
found herself in the saddle, gathering up the reins, and telling the
negro who had brought the horse up to the inner gate for her to "tell
Mr. Grigsby he would find her waiting for him under the big oak-tree on
the road."
She managed to get the words out without breaking down, and galloped
along the avenue as if the dogs were already on her heels.
Her father rejoined her in less than half an hour. She sat motionless
upon the horse under the tree. The reins lay upon the docile animal's
neck, and he was grazing in quiet satisfaction, unnoticed by his
mistress. Mr. Grigsby must have remarked her white face and swollen eyes
had he been less engrossed in his own thoughts.
"Ready, lassie?" was all he said, and "Yes, father," was her only reply.
They jogged, side by side, for a mile before either spoke again. The
bitterest cup Experience had ever held to poor Flea's lips was pressed
to them now, and the draught was the very wine of astonishment to her
soul. Five months with Aunt Jean and in a Philadelphia school had not
cured her of ambitious dreams. Miss Emily had still stood with her as
the loveliest, daintiest, and gentlest of women. She had described her
to her schoolmates as her "patron saint" and her "guardian angel." She
had not doubted what would be the outcome of the plain talk she had
sought with her angel. Miss Emily would be shocked at first, perhaps
incredulous, but in the end she would fall weeping upon her neck, and
sob in her ear, "My benefactress! from what an abyss of misery you have
saved me!"
Her dream had crashed into dust and ashes about her head. Something was
gone forever out of her past, present, and future. There was no Miss
Emily in all time for her, and, worst of all, there never had been. The
shrill coarseness of the angry woman's speech, her inflamed face and
threatening eyes, haunted Flea like a nightmare.
Her father aroused himself at length. "I am a dull companion for you,
lassie," he said, threading her horse's mane with his fingers. "But
something has gone wrong--'agley,' as we Scotchmen say--at Greenfield
that's set me to thinking about other wrong-doings that took place
months ago. The dairy was robbed last night of a matter of fifty pounds
of butter. The dogs made no noise, so the thieves were not strangers.
The Major and Mr. Robert Duncombe searched the plantation this morning,
and found nothing. The thieves, most likely, had a boat on the shore,
and made off with the butter up to Richmond. You noticed, didn't you, as
we rode by to-day that the haunted house had been pulled down?"
"No, sir," answered Flea, in a dull tone. She had not seemed to listen
until he asked the question.
"You used to sing a song about it when you had the fever," resumed the
father, in a would-be sprightly manner.
"It began,
"'It stands beside the weedy way,'
"and was really tolerable poetry as far as it went. It was queer it
should run in your head just then when the Major and I had just found
that the cabin was used as a hiding-place for stolen goods. It was a
sort of robbers' cave, and we suspected the Fogg family to be the
robbers. Mr Tayloe's watch and chain, that he had lost the day before in
the school-house, were there in a bag packed to be carried off. You
recollect that Mrs. Fogg was at the school-house that day!"
Flea gave no sign of interest or surprise. She only said, in sullen
bitterness, "I am sorry he ever found it."
"My child!"
"I am, father! I suppose I am wicked for feeling it, but I wish him all
the harm in the world. The Foggs may be thieves and liars and a hundred
other dreadful things. The worst of them is a saint compared with him."
"We will let that pass. I promised once never to speak of that day
again. I beg your pardon, my dear," said the father, gravely. There was
no use in arguing against the girl's prejudice, in which, to tell the
truth, he was beginning to share. "I was about to say that some strong
measures must be taken to find out if the Foggs are really the
ring-leaders of this gang, with the negroes to help them, or if this
wretched family do all the stealing themselves. They have been tolerably
quiet since the cabin was cleared out and pulled down, but this dairy
business looks as if they were beginning business again. If we meet the
Major on the road, I will speak to him about it. I wish now I had looked
him up in the swamp when we saw Nell."
They relapsed into silence. The country was stilling into the hush of a
summer noon. But for the indescribable consciousness of the growth of
green and flowering things that fills June days and nights--something
which is not motion and surely is not rest, and is, most of all, like
the full, slow, contented breathing of the world on which we live and
that lives with us--everything except themselves and their horses seemed
to be asleep as they passed into the grass-grown swamp road.
"The day is getting hot," observed Mr. Grigsby, presently, "if the
breeze should die away entirely we may expect a thunder-storm this
afternoon."
At that instant the neigh of a horse, clear and prolonged, pierced the
noon-tide; another moment brought them again in sight of the low-hung
gig and mare they had seen in the same spot an hour and a half ago. Nell
had not stirred from her tracks, except to paw up the earth about her
front right foot in anxiety or impatience. She looked around and neighed
piteously.
"Nell is getting hungry, poor thing!" said the overseer, stopping to pat
her glossy neck. "The flies are troubling her, too. That is the worst of
a blooded horse. The skin is as thin as a baby's. So, old lady!" and she
threw her head down and up, and again whinnied. He went on brushing off
the flies from her head and sides while he talked. "These swamp-flies
bite sharply. Any other horse would try to get away. She is the
best-broken beast in the State. If a cannon were fired off at her ear
she would jump, but she'd never run. The Major broke her himself. It's
odd where he is all this time."
A vague uneasiness took hold of him. He looked about him anxiously.
A large spruce-tree lay within ten feet of the gig. The branchy top had
bent saplings and bushes down in its fall; the ground for many yards
around was strewed with leaves and twigs. Flea glanced idly at the lower
end of the trunk. She did not wish to meet Major Duncombe with the
memory of the encounter with his daughter fresh in her mind. Still, if
her father meant to wait for him, she had no choice. She could never
tell how she chanced to notice that the trunk was hollow, and had been
partly cut through by the axe. Beyond the cut the wood and bark were
splintered roughly.
"Do you suppose he could have been here when that tree fell?" she said.
"Could that have been what we heard as we came through the woods this
morning? Oh, father!"
He looked in the direction of her pointing finger, threw himself from
his saddle, and hurried into the swamp.
[Illustration: HE WAS TEARING AWAY THE BOUGHS IN FRANTIC HASTE.]
A man's hat lying just beyond the branches of the fallen tree had
attracted Flea's eye. When she had slipped from her horse and followed
her father into the thicket, he was tearing away the boughs in frantic
haste from Major Duncombe's face. The upper part of the prostrate trunk
lay right across his chest.
It must have killed him instantly.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE.