A FAMILY JAR
The meeting between Joe Strong and the magician had quite a different
result from the one our young wizard had expected. He had not been sure
that his father would be known, even by reputation, to Professor
Rosello, and it was a source of pride and joy to Joe to see the esteem
in which his parent was held.
“There was no more brilliant performer in the business,” said the
magician. “His box trick is unrivalled to-day, and his mystery of the
ringing bells, while it is done by several, including myself, lacks the
brilliancy and smoothness which he gave it. I wish I had known him, but,
failing in that, I am glad to know his son.”
“And I am glad to know you,” replied Joe. “It isn’t often I meet any one
who appreciates the profession of a magician, or of a circus rider. My
mother was that, you know.”
“So I have heard. She, too, was famous in her day. So you are an orphan.
May I inquire with whom you live?”
Joe gave the details of his bringing up by his foster-parents. Professor
Rosello was much interested, and asked many questions.
“Are you serious in wishing to adopt the profession, or calling, of a
prestidigitator?” he asked.
“I certainly am!” answered Joe. “But I know Mr. and Mrs. Blackford will
object to it. They are even ashamed to have folks know what my father
and mother were.”
“A foolish pride!” murmured the professor. “There are as fine and noble
men and women in the circus, or in any theatrical line, as in any other
calling of life. It is hard that such a prejudice exists against them. I
have met it myself.
“But, Joe—I am going to call you that, for I feel as if I had known you
a long time. Joe, you realize, perhaps, that you will have to begin at
the bottom of the ladder in this?”
“Yes,” Joe answered the question eagerly. “Oh, I don’t suppose I could
start in now. I’ve got to work up to it gradually. It’s just my
ambition, that’s all.”
“Well, I hope you succeed,” said the magician. “I wish I could help you.
Perhaps I can, later. I will give you my card, with the names of the
places where I shall be playing for the next month or two. If you find
that you can begin this life, let me know, and I may find an opening for
you with some of my friends.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine I can,” and Joe spoke hopelessly.
“Let me see your hands,” said the professor suddenly.
Joe held them out. Firm, muscular hands they were, well formed, and
giving an idea of great strength.
“Good!” murmured the magician. “Here, let me see you palm this,” and
from an unseen portion of his clothing he produced a billiard ball.
Joe, nothing abashed, at once proceeded to manipulate the ball. He first
exhibited it in one hand, and then in the other. Finally, showing both
hands empty, he reached over and seemingly took the ball from off Tom’s
head!
“Bravo! Very good! Much better than I expected!” cried the professor.
“You have a natural ability to palm articles. I presume you must have
practiced, also.”
“A little,” admitted Joe. He did not state that many and many a night,
in his room, he had gone through this and other necessary fundamentals
in the magical art, getting ready for the time when he hoped his
ambition should be realized. Now he was reaping the fruits of his secret
practice.
“Yes, you are a better palmer than many who are on the stage to-day,”
said the professor. “It would not be fair to you, though, to say that
you have not yet something to learn. But I can see you have great
promise. I sincerely hope I can assist you. I will now write out my
different addresses for you. It may be that, some day, I can help you.”
The professor sat down at a table, and began making out a list of towns
where he would play in rotation.
Just here it may be stated for the benefit of readers unacquainted with
the prestidigitator’s art, that “palming,” as it is known in the
profession, is the act of holding an egg, billiard ball, lemon, coin, or
some similar object, in the palm of the hand, by a slight contraction of
the ball of the thumb, in such a manner that the hand, when the back of
it is held out in front of an audience, appears perfectly empty. Passing
of articles from one hand to another, involves palming, as does causing
to “disappear” certain articles apparently taken from a person’s hat,
clothes and so on.
Palming is the basis of many tricks. The explanation of these tricks is
very simple, involving in most cases the exercise of but three
principles—palming, the use of special and secret apparatus, and the old
trick of deceiving the eye by making certain motions with the hands.
The professor talked for some little time longer with Joe and Tom, and
did some tricks there, in the hotel room, with simple articles, that
even Joe admitted afterward he could not explain.
“But I’ll soon learn how they’re done,” he said to Tom, as they came
away. “I’m not going to be stumped by them!”
“Then your going to keep at this ambition of yours, Joe?”
“I certainly am! I guess it’s in my blood, Tom.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Professor Rosello had again expressed his profound gratitude to Joe for
saving his life. The magician had almost fully recovered from the shock
and said he would go on that night to the next town where he would,
later, give a performance. Joe left with a list of the succeeding places
where Professor Rosello would “play.”
“And now I guess I’d better get home,” said Joe to Tom. “The folks may
be worried about me, after hearing about the fire. I’ll send your suit
back as soon as I can.”
“No hurry about that, Joe.”
On the way to the residence of his foster-parents Joe heard more talk of
the fire, and his own brave act was often mentioned. How the fire
started was not known, but the conjecture was that spontaneous
combustion was the cause. Fires in factories where Fourth of July
articles are made are not rare occurrences. As a matter of fact, they
are rather to be expected.
In this case, the saving of the main building prevented what might have
been a calamity with great loss of life. Most of the fire apparatus was
returning as Joe turned down the street where he made his home with Mr.
and Mrs. Blackford.
“I wonder if he’ll raise a row about my clothes,” thought Joe. To
himself he always thought of Mr. Blackford as “he” and Mrs. Blackford as
“she,” though in conversation with others Joe called them “dad” and
“mother.”
As has been mentioned before, Mr. and Mrs. Blackford did not intend to
be unkind. They had lived hard and strict lives when they were young,
and they did not see why others should not tread the same path. In
consequence they curtailed Joe’s pleasures, they frowned at every
mention of his parents, and they were, at times, actually harsh and
cruel to him. They excused themselves on the plea that it was “for his
good.” But, undoubtedly, they were very short-sighted.
Joe would have been much better off had he had kinder treatment and
greater liberty. In fact, at times, he was treated as a child, though he
was, at the opening of this story, nearly eighteen years old.
“Yes, I reckon I’m in for a wigging,” mused Joe, as he approached the
house. “Might as well get it over with.”
He vaulted over the gate, landing easily, though it was not a low
barrier by any means.
“Oh, Joe! Don’t do that!” cried Mrs. Blackford. She had seen him from
the window. “You might spoil your shoes!”
“Oh, I guess not,” he answered easily.
“And what has happened to you?” she went on. “That isn’t your suit!
Where have you been? Did you hear about the fire?”
“Yes. I was there. It was quite a blaze.”
“And what about your suit?” went on the elderly woman. “This isn’t
yours.”
“I know it.”
“Whose is it?”
“Tom Simpson’s. He lent it to me.”
“But where’s your own?”
“Burned.”
“Burned?” Mrs. Blackford’s voice was shrill.
“Yes. At the fire. I—er—well, I helped get a man out, and my suit was
scorched. I had to borrow Tom’s to wear home. Couldn’t wear mine.”
Mrs. Blackford raised her hands in surprise, and pushed her spectacles
to the top of her head in order better to look at Joe.
“Well, of all things!” she cried. “I never heard tell of such goings on!
The very idea!”
“What’s the matter? What has happened?” asked the rather harsh voice of
Deacon Blackford, as he came up the walk on his way home from the office
of his feed and grain business. “Has that boy been doing something
again?” he asked.
“Doing something! I should say he had!” cried Mrs. Blackford. “He’s got
his good suit burned up at the fire!”
“What?” cried the deacon.
“I couldn’t help it,” said Joe, in self-defense. “I had to save that
man. It was the only way.”
Then Joe told briefly and modestly what he had done. He did not bring
out his true worth in the matter of the rescue, and he hardly made it
plain that, had it not been for his soaking wet suit, Professor Rosello
might have been fatally burned.
“Professor Rosello?” queried Mr. Blackford. “Is he a school teacher,
Joe?”
“No, sir, he’s a professor of magic.”
“Magic! You mean one of those worthless characters who go about giving
silly exhibitions, like the one that was here last night?”
“Yes, he was the one I saved,” Joe answered. “I’m sorry about my suit,
but it couldn’t be helped.”
“The idea!” cried Mrs. Blackford.
Mr. Blackford looked stern.
“A low, public performer!” he murmured. “Was there no one else to save
him—no one who is paid to do such things—firemen with suits that would
not easily burn? Could not one of them save him?”
“There wasn’t time,” Joe answered. “I just ran in, climbed up the rope,
and lowered him down, after I tied my wet suit about him.”
“How did you get your suit wet?” the deacon questioned.
“Swimming the creek.”
“Swimming the creek! Why did you do that?”
“To get to the fire quicker. I didn’t want to wait to go around over the
bridge.”
“Humph!”
Deacon Blackford fairly grunted out the word. He looked sharply at Joe.
“Well, I must say,” he exclaimed sharply, “that you have made a pretty
exhibition of yourself! The idea of first spoiling a suit of clothes by
swimming the creek, and then burning it up!”
“And he had worn that suit only a little over two years!” put in Mrs.
Blackford. “It was his second best. Oh, what a wasteful and careless boy
you are! It’s a shame!”
“That’s what I say!” thundered the deacon. “And, what’s more, you’ll
suffer for this, Joe! You have some money saved up. I shall take this to
pay for the suit you ruined.”
“I didn’t ruin it!” Joe retorted, desperately enough. “I had to save the
man’s life. It was the only way!”
“Stuff and nonsense!” snapped the deacon.
“No nonsense at all!” cried Joe, his temper now thoroughly aroused. “I
just had to do it!”
“Don’t talk back to me!” cried his foster-father. “I’ll teach you not to
be impudent to me!” He drew back his hand as though to strike Joe, but
the latter, after an involuntary closing of his fist, stepped back out
of the way. Joe’s face was pale.
“I’ll not take a blow from you, sir. Not any more,” he said in a quiet
voice.
“You won’t, eh?” stormed the deacon. “We’ll see what you’ll take and
won’t take! You’ll pay for that suit, that’s sure! And we’ll see who’s
boss here! I’ll strike you if I like! You’re not of age yet! Now go to
your room. I don’t want to act hastily. Go to your room at once, before
I get angry,” and, with a stamp of his foot, the old man raised a stern
hand and pointed to the stairway.
Joe turned aside without a word.