Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JUNE 23, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 869. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER II.
The full flood of the sun, now low in the heavens, poured through the
western windows upon the figure of the boy standing in the doorway. The
room was beginning to darken, and the ruddy firelight, too, fell
glowingly upon him.
The Earl was instantly roused, and could scarcely persuade himself that
the boy before him was only fifteen; seventeen, or even eighteen, would
have seemed nearer the mark, so tall and well-developed was he. Like all
creatures of the highest breeding, George looked handsomer the handsomer
his dress; and although his costume was really simple enough, he had the
splendid air that made him always appear to be in the highest fashion.
His coat and knee-breeches were of dark blue cloth, spun, woven, and
dyed at home. His waistcoat, however, was of white brocade, and was made
of his mother's wedding-gown, Madam Washington having indulged her pride
so far as to lay this treasured garment aside for waistcoats for her
sons, while Mistress Betty was to inherit the lace veil and the string
of pearls which had gone with the gown.
George's shoebuckles and knee-buckles were much finer than the Earl's,
being of paste, and having been once worn by his father. His blond hair
was made into a club and tied with a black ribbon, while under his arm
he carried a smart three-cornered hat--for the hat made a great figure
in the ceremonious bows of the period. His dog; a beautiful creature,
stood beside him.
Never in all his life had the Earl of Fairfax seen so noble a boy. The
sight of him smote the older man's heart; it flashed through him how
easy it would be to exchange all his honors and titles for such a son.
He rose and saluted him, as Madam Washington said, in a tone that had
pride in every accent,
"My lord, this is my son, Mr. Washington."
George responded with one of those graceful inclinations which, years
after, made the entrance of Colonel Washington at the Earl of Dunmore's
levee at Williamsburg a lesson in grace and good-breeding. Being "Mr.
Washington" and the head of the house, it became his duty to speak
first:
"I am most happy to welcome you, my lord, to our home."
"And I am most happy," said the Earl, "to meet once more my old friend
Madam Washington, and the goodly sons and sweet daughter with which she
has been blessed."
"My mother has often told us of you, sir, in speaking of her life during
the years she spent in England."
"Ah, my lord," said Madam Washington, "I perceive I am no longer young,
for I love to dwell upon those times, and to tell my children of the
great men I met in England, chiefly through your lordship's kindness."
"It was my good fortune," said the Earl, "to be a humble member of the
Spectator Club, and through the ever-lasting goodness of Mr. Joseph
Addison I had the advantage of knowing men so great of soul and so
luminous of mind that I think I can never forget them."
"I had not the honor of knowing Mr. Addison. He died before I ever saw
England," replied Madam Washington.
"Unfortunately, yes, madam. But of those you knew, Mr. Pope, poor
Captain Steele, and even Dean Swift, with all his ferocious wit, his
tremendous invective, his savage thirst for place and power, respected
Mr. Addison. He was a man of great dignity--not odd and misshapen, like
little Mr. Pope, not frowsy like poor Dick Steele, nor rude and
overbearing like the fierce Dean--but ever gentle, mild, and of a most
manly bearing. For all Mr. Addison's mildness, I think there was no man
that Dean Swift feared so much. When we would all meet at the club, and
the Dean would begin his railing at persons of quality--for he always
chose that subject when I was present--Mr. Addison would listen with a
smile to the Dean as he lolled over the table in his huge periwig and
roared out in his great rich voice all the sins of all the people,
always beginning and ending with Sir Robert Walpole, whom he hated most
malignantly. Once, a pause coming in the Dean's talk, Mr. Addison,
calmly taking out his snuff-box and helping himself to a pinch, remarked
that he had always thought Dean Swift's chiefest weakness, until he had
been assured to the contrary, was his love for people of quality. We
each held our breath. Dick Steele quietly removed a pewter mug from the
Dean's elbow; Mr. Pope, who sat next Mr. Addison, turned pale and
slipped out of his chair; the Dean turned red and breathed hard, glaring
at Mr. Addison, who only smiled a little; and then he--the great Dean
Swift, the man who could make governments tremble and Parliaments
afraid; who made duchesses weep from his rude sneers, and great ladies
almost go down on their knees to him--sneaked out of the room at this
little thrust from Mr. Addison. For 'twas the man, madam--the honest
soul of him--that could cow that great swashbuckler of a genius. Mr.
Addison abused no one, and he was exactly what he appeared to be."
"That, indeed, is the highest praise, as it shows the highest wisdom,"
answered Madam Washington.
George listened with all his mind to this. He had read the _Spectator_,
and Mr. Addison's tragedy of _Cato_ had been read to him by Mr. Hobby,
the Scotch schoolmaster who taught him, and he loved to hear of these
great men. The Earl, although deep in talk with Madam Washington, was by
no means unmindful of the boy, but, without seeming to notice him,
watched every expression of his earnest face.
"I once saw Dean Swift," continued Madam Washington. "It was at a London
rout, where I went with my brother's wife, Madam Joseph Ball, when we
were visiting in London. He had great dark eyes, and sat in a huge
chair, and called ladies of quality 'my dear,' as if they were
dairy-maids. And the ladies seemed half to like it and half to hate it.
They told me that two ladies had died of broken hearts for him."
"I believe it to be true," replied the Earl. "That was the last time the
Dean ever saw England. He went to Ireland, and, as he said, 'commenced
Irishman in earnest,' and died very miserably. He could not be bought
for money, but he could very easily be bribed with power."
"And that poor Captain Steele?"
The Earl's grave face was suddenly illuminated with a smile.
"Dear Dick Steele--the softest-hearted, bravest, gentlest
fellow--always drunk, and always repenting. There never was so great a
sermon preached on drunkenness as Dick Steele himself was. But for drink
he would have been one of the happiest, as he was by nature one of the
best and truest gentlemen in the world; but he was weak, and he was in
consequence forever miserable. Drink brought him to debts and duns and
prison and rags and infamy. Ah, madam, 'twould have made your heart
bleed, as it made mine, to see poor Dick reeling along the street,
dirty, unkempt, his sword bent, and he scarce knowing what he was doing;
and next day, at home, where his wife and children were in hunger and
cold and poverty, behold him, lying in agony on his wretched bed,
weeping, groaning, reproaching himself, and suffering tortures for one
hour's wicked indulgence! Then would he turn gentleman again, and for a
long time be our own dear Dick Steele--his wife smiling, his children
happy. I love to think on honest Dick at these times. It was then he
wrote that beautiful little book, which should be in every soldier's
hands, _The Christian Hero_. We could always tell at the club whether
Dick Steele were drunk or sober by Mr. Addison's face. When Steele was
acting the beast, Mr. Addison sighed often and looked melancholy all the
time, and spent his money in taking such care as he could of the poor
wife and children. Poor Dick! The end came at last in drunkenness and
beastliness; but before he died, for a little while, he was the Dick
Steele we loved, and shall ever love."
"And Mr. Pope--the queer little gentleman--who lived at Twickenham, and
was so kind to his old mother?"
"Mr. Pope was a very great genius, madam, and had he not been born
crooked he would have been an admirable man; but the crook in his body
seemed to make a crook in his mind. He died but last year, outliving
many strong men who pitied his puny frame. But let me not disparage Mr.
Pope. My Lord Chesterfield, who was a very good judge of men, as well as
the first gentleman of his time, entertained a high esteem for Mr.
Pope."
"I also had the honor of meeting the Earl of Chesterfield," continued
Madam Washington, with animation, "and he well sustained the reputation
for politeness that I had heard of him, for he made as much of me as if
I had been a great lady instead of a young girl from the colonies, whom
chance and the kindness of a brother had brought to England, and your
lordship's goodness had introduced to many people of note. 'Tis true I
saw them but for a glimpse or two, but that was enough to make me
remember them forever. I have tried to teach my son Lord Chesterfield's
manner of saluting ladies, in which he not only implied the deepest
respect for the individual, but the greatest reverence for all women."
"That is true of my Lord Chesterfield," replied the Earl, who found it
enchanting to recall these friends of his youth with whom he had lived
in close intimacy, "and his manners revealed the man. He had also a
monstrous pretty wit. There is a great lumbering fellow of prodigious
learning, one Samuel Johnson, with whom my Lord Chesterfield has become
most friendly. I never saw this Johnson myself, for he is much younger
than the men of whom we are speaking; but I hear from London that he is
a wonder of learning, and although almost indigent, will not accept aid
from his friends, but works manfully for the booksellers. He has
described my Lord Chesterfield as 'a wit among lords, and a lord among
wits.' I heard something of this Dr. Johnson, in a late letter from
London, that I think most praiseworthy, and affording a good example to
the young. His father, it seems, was a bookseller at Lichfield, where on
market-days he would hire a stall in the market for the sale of his
wares. One market-day, when Samuel was a youth, his father, being ill
and unable to go himself, directed him to fit up the book-stall in the
market and attend to it during the day. The boy, who was otherwise a
dutiful son, refused to do this. Many years afterwards, his father being
dead, Johnson, being as he is in great repute for learning, was so
preyed upon by remorse for his undutiful conduct that he went to
Lichfield and stood bareheaded in the market-place, before his father's
old stall, for one whole market-day, as an evidence of his sincere
penitence. I hear that some of the thoughtless jeered at him, but the
better class of people respected his open acknowledgment of his
fault--the more so as he was in a higher worldly position than his
father had ever occupied, and it showed that he was not ashamed of an
honest parent because he was of a humble class. I cannot think, madam,
of that great scholar, standing all day with bare, bowed head, bearing
with silent dignity the remarks of the curious, the jeers of the
scoffers, without in spirit taking off my hat to him."
During this story Madam Washington fixed her eyes on George, who colored
slightly, but remarked, as the Earl paused:
"It was the act of a brave man and a gentleman. There are not many of us
who could do it."
Just then the door opened, and Uncle Jasper, bearing a huge tray,
entered. He placed it on a round mahogany table, and Madam Washington
proceeded to make tea, and offered it to the Earl with her own hands.
The Earl, while drinking his tea, glanced first at George and then at
pretty little Betty, who, feeling embarrassed at the notice she
received, produced her sampler from her pocket and began to work
demurely in cross stitch on it. Presently Lord Fairfax noticed the open
harpsichord.
"I remember, madam," he said to Madam Washington, as they gravely sipped
their tea together, "that you had a light hand on the harpsichord."
"I have never touched it since my husband's death," answered she, "but
my daughter Betty can perform with some skill."'
Mistress Betty, obeying a look from her mother, rose at once and went to
the harpsichord, never thinking of the ungraceful and disobliging
protest of more modern days. She seated herself, and struck boldly into
"The Marquis of Huntley's Rigadoon." She had, indeed, a skilful little
hand, and as the touch of her small fingers filled the room with quaint
music the Earl sat tapping with his foot to mark the time, and smiling
at the little maid's grave air while she played. When her performance
was over she rose, and, making a reverence to her mother and her guest,
returned to her sampler.
The Earl had now spent nearly two hours with his old friend, and the sun
was near setting, but he could scarcely make up his mind to leave. The
interest he felt in her seemed transferred to her children, especially
the two elder, and the resolve entered his mind that he would see more
of that splendid boy. He turned to George and said to him:
"Will you be so good, Mr. Washington, as to order my people to put to my
horses, as I find that time has flown surprisingly fast?"
"Will you not stay the night, my lord?" asked Madam Washington. "We can
amply accommodate you and your servants."
"Nothing would please me more, madam, but it is my duty to reach
Fredericksburg to-night, where I have business, and I am now seeking a
ferry where I can be moved across."
"Then you have not to seek far, sir, for this place is called Ferry
Farm; and we have several small boats, and a large one that will easily
hold your coach; and, with the assistance of your servants, all of them,
as well as your horses, can be ferried over at once."
The Earl thanked her, and George left the room promptly to make the
necessary arrangements. In a few moments the horses were put to the
coach, as the ferry was half a mile from the house; and George, ordering
his saddle clapped on his horse, that was just then being brought from
the pasture, galloped down to the ferry to superintend the
undertaking--not a light one--of getting a coach, eight horses, and
eight persons across the river.
The coach being announced as ready, Madam Washington and the Earl rose
and walked together to the front porch, accompanied by little Mistress
Betty, who hung fondly to her mother's hand. Outside stood the three
younger boys, absorbed in contemplation of the grandeur of the equipage.
They came forward promptly to say good-by to their mother's guest, and
then slipped around into the chimney-corner, that they might see the
very last of the sight so new to them. Little Betty also disappeared in
the house after the Earl had gallantly kissed her hand, and predicted
that her bright eyes would yet make many a heart ache. Left alone on the
porch in the twilight with Madam Washington, he said to her, very
earnestly:
"Madam, I do not speak the language of compliment when I say that you
may well be the envy of persons less fortunate than you when they see
your children. Of your eldest boy I can truly say I never saw a nobler
youth, and I hope you will place no obstacle in the way of my seeing him
again. Greenway Court is but a few days' journey from here, and if I
could have him there it would be one of the greatest pleasures I could
possibly enjoy."
"Thank you, my lord," answered Madam Washington, simply. "My son George
has, so far, never caused me a moment's uneasiness, and I can very well
trust him with persons less improving to him than your lordship. It is
my wish that he should have the advantage of the society of learned and
polished men, and your kind invitation shall some day be accepted."
"You could not pay me a greater compliment, madam, than to trust your
boy with me, and I shall claim the fulfilment of your promise," replied
Lord Fairfax. "Farewell, madam; the sincere regard I have cherished
during nearly twenty years for you will be extended to your children,
and your son shall never want a friend while I live. I do not know that
I shall ever travel three days' journey from Greenway again, so this may
be our last meeting."
"Whether it be or not, my lord," said Madam Washington, "I can only
assure you of my friendship and gratitude for your good-will towards my
son."
The Earl then respectfully kissed her hand, as he had done little
Betty's, and stepped into the coach. With a great smacking of whips and
rattle and clatter and bang the equipage rolled down the road in the
dark towards the ferry.
A faint moon trembled in the heavens, and it was so dark that torches
were necessary on the river-bank. George had dismounted from his horse,
and with quiet command had got everything in readiness to transport the
cavalcade. The Earl, sitting calmly back in the chariot, watched the
proceedings keenly. He knew that it required good judgment in a boy of
fifteen to take charge of the ferriage of so many animals and men
without haste or confusion. He observed that in the short time George
had preceded him everything was exactly as it should be--the large boat
drawn up ready for the coach, and two smaller boats and six stalwart
negro ferrymen to do the work.
"I have arranged, my lord, with your permission," he said, "to ferry the
coach and horses, with your own servants, over first, as it is not worth
while taking any risks in crowding the boats; then, when the boats
return, the outriders and their horses may return in the large boat."
"Quite right, Mr. Washington," answered the Earl, briskly; "your
dispositions do credit to you, and I believe you could transport a
regiment with equal ease and precision."
George's face colored with pleasure at this. "I shall go on with you
myself," he said, "if you will allow me."
The boat was drawn up, a rude but substantial raft was run from the
shore to the boat, the horses were taken from the coach, and it was
rolled on board by the strong arms of a dozen men. The horses were
disposed to balk at getting in the boat, but, after a little coaxing,
trotted quietly aboard; the ferrymen, re-enforced by two of Lord
Fairfax's servants, took the oars, and the boat, followed by two smaller
ones, was pulled rapidly across the river. After a few minutes, seeing
that everything was going right, George entered the coach and sat by the
Earl's side. The Earl lighted his travelling-lamp, and the two sat in
earnest conversation. Lord Fairfax wished to find out something more
about the boy who had made so strong an impression on him. He found that
George had been well taught, and although not remarkable in general
literature, he knew more mathematics than most persons of twice his age
and opportunities. He had been under the care of the old Scotchman, Mr.
Hobby, who was, in a way, a mathematical genius, and George had profited
by it.
"And what, may I ask, Mr. Washington, is your plan for the future?"
"I hope, sir," answered George, modestly, "that I shall be able to get a
commission in his Majesty's army or navy. As you know, although I am my
mother's eldest son, my brother Laurence, of Mount Vernon, is my
father's eldest son, and the head of our family. My younger brothers and
I have small fortunes, and I would like to see something of the world
and some service in arms before I set myself to increasing my part."
"Very creditable to you, and you may count upon whatever influence I
have towards getting you a commission in either branch of the military
service. I myself served in the Low Countries under the Duke of
Marlborough in my youth, and although I have long since given up the
profession of arms, I can never lose my interest in it. Your honored
mother has promised me the pleasure of your company for a visit at
Greenway Court, when we may discuss the matter of your commission at
length. I am not far from an old man, Mr. Washington, but I retain my
interest in youth, and I like to see young faces about me at Greenway."
"Thank you, my lord," answered George, with secret delight. "I shall not
let my mother forget her promise--but she never does that."
"There is excellent sport at Greenway, and I have kept a choice breed of
deer-hounds, as well as fox-hounds. I brought with me from England a
considerable library, and you can, I hope, amuse yourself with a book;
but if you cannot amuse yourself with a book, you will always be
dependent upon others for your entertainment."
"I am fond of reading--on rainy days," said George; at which candid
acknowledgment the Earl smiled.
What a delightful vista this opened before George, who was, like other
healthy-minded boys, devoted to reading and hearing of battles, and
fencing, and all manly sports! He glanced at Lance, standing erect and
soldierly, as the boat moved through the water. He meant to hear all
about the siege of Bouchain from Lance before the year was out, and
blushed when he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that he had never
heard of the siege of Bouchain.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
HOW MAGIC IS MADE.
BY HENRY HATTON.
V.
About the year 1864 Carl Herrmann introduced at the old Academy of
Music, New York, a trick never seen here before, which he called "The
Miser." It has since become common, and, under the more prosaic title of
"Catching Money in the Air," is exhibited more or less skilfully by many
of the present-day conjurers. None, however, has presented it so
artistically as the originator, for in his hands it was a very clever
bit of melodramatic acting.
Borrowing a hat from the audience, he crept about the dimly lighted
stage to the accompaniment of weird music, and with eager eyes and
avaricious clutch seemingly plucked from the air half-dollars
innumerable, which he deposited in the hat, until he had accumulated
twenty-five or thirty.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
[Illustration: FIG. 3.]
More modern conjurers have tried to improve on Herrmann's method by
using apparatus of one kind or another in the trick, but he relied
exclusively on his ability to palm a coin.
As it will be necessary for my readers first to master this important
element of conjuring, I shall try to teach it before explaining the
other details of the trick. To palm a coin, hold it lightly between the
tips of the second and third fingers and the thumb of either hand, as
shown in Fig. 1. Balancing it on the finger-tips, let the thumb resume
its normal position, and at the same moment let the two fingers press
the coin into the hollow of the palm. See Fig. 2. Now contract the thumb
so that the coin will be held by the ball on one side, and on the other
by the opposite fleshy part of the hand, as in Fig. 3. Though at first
it may be difficult to press the coin into the exact position, practice
will soon make it easy.
The beginner is apt to try to have his hand appear perfectly flat when
seen from the back; but let him notice the open hand of a friend as it
hangs in a normal condition, and he will find that it is slightly
arched. Supposing that my reader is now an adept at palming, let us
proceed with "The Miser" as Herrmann did it.
When he came on the stage he held twenty-five or thirty coins in his
left hand and one coin in his right. As an excuse for keeping the left
hand closed it grasped the lower part of the lapel of his coat. In the
right hand he carried his wand, or badge of office, a round ebony stick
about eighteen inches long, fitted at the ends with ivory ferrules.
Approaching some man in the audience, he asked for a high hat, and as it
was handed to him he thrust the left hand inside of it, the thumb only
remaining outside to grasp the rim. Extending his arms, he struck the
left arm with his wand and the closed right hand, asking the nearest
person to feel his arms and body so as to assure himself that nothing
was concealed there. This examination over, he turned to go back to the
stage, throwing his wand ahead of him, and letting the coin in the right
hand slip into his sleeve.
Now began his search for the money. As he moved about the stage the
audience was allowed to see that the right hand was empty. Suddenly he
grasped at the air, and then peering into his hand, he struck his
forehead as if in despair at finding nothing. Then as the right hand
fell to his side the sleeved half-dollar slipped into it.
Now began the money hunt in earnest. With his right side toward the
audience, he again clutched at the air, and this time, letting the coin
drop to his finger-tips, showed it. Then he tossed it visibly, so that
all might see it, into the hat, where it was heard to fall. The next
moment, as if with the instinct of the miser, he took it out again and
pressed it to his lips, and once more threw it into the hat. This time,
however, he only apparently did so, for as the hand went inside the hat
he palmed the coin, and let drop one of the coins from the left hand
instead.
Round and round the stage he went, catching the coin, palming it, and
apparently adding it to the store in the hat, which was each time
supplied from the left hand.
When only four or five coins were left in the hand, he actually threw
the coin which he "caught" into the hat, turned the empty hand toward
the audience--without speaking, however, for the whole trick was carried
out in pantomime--and then placing it inside the hat, as if to hold it,
took the remaining coins from the left hand. Withdrawing that hand, he
turned it, palm outward, toward the audience, and then took the hat with
it again, this time keeping the fingers outside. In the mean time he had
palmed the four or five remaining coins, for it is as easy for the
practised conjurer to palm six as one. These coins he proceeded to
"catch," one at a time--which requires considerable practice--and threw
each visibly into the hat. This last move set at rest any suspicions
which might exist that he had been using one coin throughout the trick.
During the course of the trick, Herrmann at times pretended to pass the
coin through the bottom or side of the hat. To do this he merely showed
the coin, which he palmed as his hand approached the hat, and let the
tips of his fingers touch the plush, as if pushing the coin through. At
the same time he dropped a coin from the left hand, and the chink as it
came in contact with the others heightened the illusion.
Herrmann played to very large audiences, and this trick proved so
popular that Robert Heller decided to reproduce it; but he varied it as
follows: Besides the lot of half-dollars in his left hand, he had six or
eight in his right. Making a grab at the air, he thus "caught" a number
of coins, which he appeared to throw into the hat. In fact, he merely
closed his hand over the captured coins without any palming, and let six
or eight drop from his left hand. Of course his stock was soon
exhausted; but when that happened he threw the coins from his right hand
bodily into the hat. Then for the next two or three times when he
grabbed at the air he kept the right hand closed, and putting the empty
hand over the hat, shook up the coins already in, thus giving the
impression that he had thrown a number of coins in. Finally he went
among his audience, and taking a heaping handful of coins out of the
hat, poured them back, retaining six or seven in his hand. These latter
he then shook from a lady's handkerchief or her muff, or pretended to
take them from the long whiskers of some man.
Two or three years later Hartz did the trick, and as he could not palm a
coin, he used a flat tin tube which held about six coins. This tube hung
by a hook inside the right breast of his vest; the lower end just
reached the bottom of the vest. By putting the tips of the fingers under
the vest and pressing a lever, a coin dropped into the hand, and the
performer was thus enabled, from time to time, to show a half-dollar and
throw it into the hat. The other times he merely pretended to catch a
coin, and put his closed empty hand over the mouth of the hat, and "made
believe," as the children say, to drop the money in.
Another mechanical arrangement that is used by some performers is
strapped just above the wrist, inside the sleeve, and is so constructed
that by extending the arm suddenly a coin is shot out by means of a
spring to about the tips of the fingers, and the performer really
catches it. Still another coin-holder is used, but the pump-handle
movement necessary to release the coins is inartistic. There is one
little wrinkle, however, in connection with this trick which is worth
describing and worth using. It is a coin with a tiny hole drilled
through it near its edge. A human hair or a bit of fine sewing silk is
run through this hole and formed into a loop. In this way the coin is
hung from the thumb. When the performer wishes to "catch" it, a slight
jerk brings it to the front of the hand, where he seizes it; and as he
puts it into the hat he lets it swing to the back of the hand, which can
then be shown empty.
A very good trick, somewhat akin to palming, is done with five
half-dollars. In palming proper, a new coin with a sharp, milled edge is
the best to use, as the milling helps to hold it in place, but for this
trick well-worn pieces of money which have become quite smooth are
necessary.
[Illustration: FIG. 4.]
[Illustration: FIG. 5.]
[Illustration: FIG. 6.]
Begin by rolling up the sleeves so that the arms are bared. Hold the
left-hand extended, palm upwards, and on the tip of each finger and
thumb balance a coin. Place the right hand on top of the left, so that
the money is held between the tips of the fingers of the two hands. Now
turn the hands until the back of the right hand is towards the audience,
as in Fig. 4. Fix your eyes on the ceiling, as if that had something to
do with the trick; move the hands rapidly upward and downward twice, and
while doing so bring the tips of the fingers together, causing the coins
to lap one over another. Then surround them, as it were, with the tips
of the left hand fingers and thumb, and quickly slide them down into the
right palm, where they are to be held by pressing on them with the tip
of the left thumb; finally, at almost the same moment make a third
upward move, keeping the hands together and the eyes fixed above; the
hands will appear to be empty and the coins to have vanished. Figs. 5
and 6 show the fronts and backs of the hands. During the applause which
always follows this trick, quietly withdraw your thumb, close the right
hand over the money, and put it noiselessly away, either in your pocket
or other receptacle.
The mere learning of a move like palming is hardly interesting unless it
avails for some trick. As "The Miser" is not suitable for all occasions,
here is a little trick which will answer to show my amateur friend's
proficiency:
Place two half-dollar's on a table. Pick up one with the right hand,
palm it, and pretend to place it in the left hand. To do this naturally
let the tips of the right-hand fingers touch the left hand, and at the
same time close that hand and draw the other away. To the general
spectator it will appear as if the coin really remained in the left
hand. Turn the left wrist, so that the back of the hand will be toward
your audience.
Now pick up the second coin with the tips of the right-hand fingers and
thumb, cry, "Pass!" Clink the two coins together, and it will seem as if
the left-hand coin had at that moment passed to the right.
Besides the method of palming described, which may be called the
orthodox, there are several other methods, one of which I will briefly
describe.
[Illustration: FIG. 7.]
[Illustration: FIG. 8.]
With the palm upward, hold the coin between the thumb and second finger
of the left hand, the tip of the forefinger touching it from below, as
in Fig. 7. Let the right thumb go under and the other fingers over it,
as if taking it. If at the same time you withdraw the right forefinger
and release the grasp of the thumb and second finger, the coin will fall
into the left palm, as in Fig. 8. Close the right hand and hold it
aloft, letting the left hand drop to the side or rest on the hip. The
effect is exactly as if the coin had been taken away by the right hand.
The coin may be made to appear as if taken from the leg by merely
dropping it to the tips of the left-hand fingers, which must then be
laid on the spot it is desired to have it appear.
If, instead of a coin, a small ball is used, a very laughable effect may
be produced by appearing to swallow it. To do this show the ball, throw
it into the air once or twice, and at last palm it. Place the
gathered-up tips of the fingers and thumb to the lips, and at that
moment thrust the tongue into the left cheek, which will give it the
appearance of having the ball there. Point to the cheek with the right
forefinger; then let the right hand drop to the side, holding the ball
palmed. To reproduce it lift the lower front of the vest with the left
hand, and thrusting the right hand under, let the ball find its way to
the finger-tips; leave it under the vest a second, and then withdraw it
slowly.
THE HIDDEN TREASURE OF KING OBANI.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
This is the story of an American boy in far-off Africa. He was sixteen
years of age--very near seventeen, in fact--at the time of this tale;
but he had led such a strange life and had been in so many places that
he had probably seen more of the world than many grown men who consider
themselves great travellers.
The boy's name did not have an American sound; it was Malcolm McFee, and
that is Scotch, as any one can tell at half a glance, and the only
reason he was an American was because he happened to be born in the
United States, on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada.
In his early youth Malcolm's father had been a sailor, and after that a
soldier of the Queen in India, where, after serving bravely, and being
wounded in one of the campaigns against the mountain tribes, he had
taken it into his head to leave before his time was up, and start on the
peculiar crusade which filled the next thirty years or so of his life,
and which, at the end of that time found him in the far-away diamond and
gold country of the dark continent.
One day Malcolm McFee was sitting in front of the little sheet-iron
house in which he and his father lived off in the interior of one of the
British Colonies in South Africa, when he saw the latter coming rapidly
towards him with his arms swinging. Mr. McFee was a small wiry man, all
thews and sinews. He had never abused himself in any way, and he could
strike a trot and hold it open-mouthed all day like a dog. He was loping
along through the dust, and Malcolm saw that he was evidently laboring
under some excitement. Now his father was never despondent or cast down,
but he was sometimes more enthusiastic than at others, that was all, and
never had the boy seen his father so wrought up as at this very moment.
He entered the house and closed the door behind him. Then, not even
breathing hard from his running, he put both hands on Malcolm's
shoulders, and exclaimed, "Laddie, laddie, but we are going to strike it
rich!"
Now Malcolm had heard this before, so he waited for further
developments. But the strange tale that was told him succeeded at last
in arousing even his calmer nature.
A year previously the British government had conducted a campaign way to
the northwest of the South African Dutch republic. They had humbled the
little black native King and made him pay tribute, but the loot and
treasure that they expected to find (for he had been reputed to be
wealthy) were not forth-coming. This is the key to this story, and there
is no use of going into the details of the conversation between Malcolm
and his father. It is what they did that is interesting--and what took
place afterwards.
That night an Englishman named Gifford, a tall, gaunt, fanatical-looking
being, entered their hut. He was accompanied by a gray-headed, wizened
negro, whose ribs and joints showed plainly beneath his shrivelled,
dusty skin. A rather remarkable council was held--the Englishman
translating as the negro talked.
"He says he knows exactly the place," Gifford said. "He saw them burying
it, and after they had walked away from the spot old Obani had every one
of the men who digged for him killed--heads chopped off, you know.
That's the reason Tommy Atkins didn't find anything up there, eh?
Listen, man! We can get it--gold and sparklers! old Grumpah here
says--handfuls of them. Are you game, man, to try it? I tell you frankly
why I come to you," Gifford continued. "I know you can be trusted, and
we will need some money for the outfit. I say, old Juggins, come, are
you with me?"
"How did you get such a hold over the old boy?" asked Mr. McFee, nodding
towards the squatting black figure.
"That's a short story," answered the Englishman, laughing. "I have had
my eye on him for a long time. He let something slip once, and I tell
you, man, I worked with my hands to keep that old nig in idleness--for
three years I've worked for him. I arranged it so that he thinks I saved
his life, too; and that was easy. And now the point--will you join me?"
This question was superfluous, as any one who had known Malcolm's father
would have testified.
Three weeks later two large ox-carts, with four blacks to drive them,
and three white men--at least two white men and a boy--were treaking
across the flat plains, equipped apparently for a hunting excursion into
the game-abounding country where beasts with strange horns and names are
found in plenty, and where the lion's roar often breaks the stillness of
the night.
Privation and hardship, death and disease they faced, and at last, a
month later, with only one wagon left, and the loss of one of the negro
drivers (by drowning at a river ford) they arrived at the great fertile
border-land that edges the deep forest of the outermost possessions of
King Obani, chief of the Bangwalis. Here they rested for a week,
regaining strength, for they had made the trip in the unhealthy season
of the year. They had traded their way peaceably, so far, with what
natives they had met, and had encountered no hostile resistance. But the
hardest work was yet to come.
Leaving the cattle in charge of one of the natives in a little hidden
valley, the four men and Malcolm entered the shadows of the forest. For
ten days they struggled on, cutting their way slowly through the massive
undergrowth. Each one was laden down with a heavy pack, pickaxes, and
long-handled shovels, not forgetting a few coils of rope, and iron bolts
which came in handy afterwards. Besides, the three white men (I can
speak of Malcolm as a man) carried rifles and well-filled
cartridge-boxes.
On the tenth day old Grumpah, who was leading, stopped and made a
strange clucking sound, the sound that the African used universally to
attract attention. He pointed with his long bony arm. Half hidden by the
vines and weeds lay a white rain-washed skeleton, and only a few feet
away lay another. They counted thirty of them in all. It was here that
the sharers of King Obani's secret had been put past the revealing of
it. Grumpah was talking excitedly now, using long words, but Malcolm had
picked up a little of the language, and he caught the gist of it even
before Gifford turned and spoke.
"Old 'Grumpah' says it is only five miles further on," he whispered.
For some time they had been following quite a distinct path, and now it
was better going. In a little over an hour, Gifford, who had forged
ahead, uttered a shout that startled some great billed birds squawking
out of the tree-tops.
"By George," the Englishman exclaimed, "the old fellow has not lied!
Here is the place."
It was evident that a clearing had been made, and at the foot of a great
white-trunked tree a mound could be seen covered and grown with
underbrush, but hanging from the branch of a tall bush was a strange
object. It was an ordinary gin bottle with a label blown into the glass,
and on another branch hung a dinner-bell with the clapper removed.
Gifford struck the bell with the point of his rifle--it tinkled
musically in the silence, and he said, "Come in," jocosely. Mr. McFee's
eyes, however, were shining like coals; he removed his coat and laid
about him with an axe, cutting away the shrubbery and clearing up the
ground. Evidently the mound had been made by hands--no mistaking that.
"Ask him how deep it is," Mr. McFee said, eagerly, driving the point of
a pickaxe into the earth.
"The depth of four men!" returned Gifford--"less than thirty feet. How
long will it take us?"
McFee looked about him.
"Four days at the most," he said, "if it is easy digging. But now let us
go at it right and dig it well fashion. We must make a windlass."
Even before dark--and it grows dark very suddenly in the African
forest--a rough winch had been constructed from the trunk of a tree;
with the aid of the iron bolts it was strongly held together, and
handles were placed on each end, so they could be worked the way a
bucket is lowered and raised in a mine shaft. By noon the next day all
this was completed and the digging fairly commenced. When they had gone
down some ten feet or more, and it became difficult to throw up the
spadefuls of the black rich earth, the windlass was placed in position,
a basket constructed with the aid of twigs and vines, and the two
negroes were set to work hauling the earth to the surface as the white
men below filled the improvised carrier. Malcolm's back ached from the
constant bending and lifting, but his father labored as might a fireman
in a burning house, and Gifford, stripped to the waist and dripping with
perspiration like a stoker, delved with the strength of two men. Twenty
feet, twenty-five feet, thirty feet were reached, and the only
encouraging thing about it was that there were signs that the earth had
been disturbed before them.
At noon of the third day they had all gone to the surface except Sandy
McFee, when the latter gave utterance to a shout from the shaft,
"Here's something," he called; "look out!"
A shining object thrown from his hand sailed up from out the shaft. It
was another gin bottle. (Alas! the mark of on-sweeping civilization.)
It struck against the handle of the windlass and shivered into a hundred
sparkling bits. One of them fell at Malcolm's feet.
"Look out, McFee, you idiot!" cried Gifford, springing up. "You came
near braining us."
"I have struck a layer of tree trunks," came the answer from below. "The
treasure must be underneath."
But Malcolm was sitting there gazing at something that he held between
his thumb and forefinger.
"What's the matter, lad?" asked Gifford, turning.
Malcolm handed the shining thing up to him.
"Diamonds!" exclaimed the older man, with a gasp; "the bottle was filled
with 'em!"
Most of its contents had fallen back into the shaft. Gifford slipped the
stone into his mouth and made a spring for the rope. He slid down it
sailor fashion, and one of the blacks followed him. Malcolm hastened to
the edge. There they were, on their hands and knees, searching the loose
earth, beneath which showed clearly the heavy beams that protected the
rest of King Obani's treasure.
They were picking things up, objects to right and left, as children do
scattered sugar-plums.
Malcolm had about made up his mind to go down also, when suddenly he
heard a weird call off in the woods. It reminded him of the "coo-ee" of
the Australian bushmen. It was evidently the sound of a human voice.
Another answered it. The black man who had staid on the surface with old
Grumpah and himself gave a startled look around, and without a word put
off into the woods.
"Some one is coming," shouted Malcolm down the shaft.
Again the call was heard. This time those below heard it also.
"Hurry up! get us out!" shouted Gifford. "It's the Bangwalis. I know the
cry."
Hurriedly he emptied the earth out of the basket, and, with Mr. McFee,
stepped inside, holding fast to the rope. Malcolm took one handle and
Grumpah the other. Slowly they turned the windlass that was supporting
more than its usual weight. They had raised it perhaps ten feet or so
when there was a sharp crack, and old Grumpah gave a groan. The handle
on his side had broken. The old man, who had been straining forward with
all his strength, slipped his footing and plunged headlong into the pit.
The weight now was more than Malcolm's arms could stand, and do his best
he could not help the windlass slipping from his grasp. Down went the
basket.
"Are you hurt?" he shouted.
"Steady, Mal, my boy," came his father's voice in reply. "Keep cool. Now
try again. One at a time!"
Malcolm put forth all the might of his strong young back, and slowly the
bucket came to the surface, this time with his father alone.
"The old nig broke his neck," were the first words he said. "Come, get
the others out."
[Illustration: McFEE AND MALCOLM GRASPED THE WINCH HANDLE.]
At this moment, nearer than before, sounded the strange cry. McFee
grasped the winch handle with his son, and they had wound Gifford nearly
to the top, when Malcolm heard a noise and looked up. Not thirty feet
away, parting the bushes, stood a strange figure. Over the top of a long
shield peered an excited black face, and behind it another. The gleam of
a broad spear-head and the tossing of a headdress farther back showed
that there were more to come.
So paralyzed were the natives by astonishment at what they saw that they
stood there for a moment like ebony statues. McFee saw his opportunity.
"Pull hard, boy," he said. "This affair has gone past treating;" and he
stooped quickly and picked up the Martini rifle from the ground. The
shot rang out at once, and the nearest two figures lunged forward, for
the ball had passed through both of them.
Gifford was now swarming up the rope faster than Malcolm could raise the
bucket. A wild cry rang through the woods, but dismayed by the death of
the foremost two, the rest of the Bangwalis had taken to their heels.
"Get your guns," cried Gifford. "We must make for the high ground down
the path."
The black man down at the bottom of the pit set up a piteous howl.
"We can't leave him," cried Malcolm, letting the bucket go by the run.
The negro seized the rope and came up it like a monkey, leaving the body
of poor old Grumpah where he fell. All four now struck off through the
woods to the northward. The cries and the pounding of a tomtom were
heard from the south, and then a wild scream, as it was evident the
blacks had determined on a charge across the open.
"They'll be on us in about five minutes," panted Gifford, looking back
over his shoulder. "What in the world are we to do? We must leave the
path."
They crushed their way through the thickets a dozen yards or so, each
man fighting as if the leaves would drown him, when Malcolm pointed with
his finger. There, towering straight up to the sky, was the trunk of a
huge tree. At the roots was a small opening, large enough to all
appearances for a man to squeeze his way in. No sooner had he seen it
than the black darted toward it on hands and knees like a rabbit, and
before the others could tell what he was going to do, nothing but his
heels were to be seen. Gifford turned and reached up overhead. With the
stroke of his knife he clipped off the top of one of the overhanging
bushes.
"In with you!" he cried--"in with you! That tree trunk is nothing but a
chimney. It will hold us all."
Malcolm and his father and lastly the lanky Englishman crawled into the
damp-smelling interior, and Gifford pulled the ends of the branch in
after him, so that the spreading leaves would hide the opening. Now the
cries sounded all about. On the path not forty feet away a crowd of
natives went by on the rush, the ornaments on their knees jingling as
they ran. Crouching in the crowded space the fugitives waited
breathlessly. They heard more cries, and once some one had passed
through the bushes so close to them that they could hear the swishing of
the leaves. It had grown so dark that perhaps their footprints could not
be seen; their hiding-place was not discovered.
Now a consultation was held.
"I wish old Grumpah was here," said Clifford. "He knows the country."
The black whose teeth were chattering was mumbling something.
"What's that?" asked Gifford, turning to him.
"Ribber not far off," the man replied.
Gifford spoke to him in his own language, and then he addressed the
others in a whisper.
"This boy was a slave to the Bangwalis," he said. "He tells me there is
a stream to the northward. We might make it and find a canoe at the
banks. It's our only chance for life."
"Will we have to leave the treasure behind?" asked Mr. McFee, hoarsely.
"Confound the treasure!" responded Gifford. "It may be the death of us
yet. We have enough white stones to make us rich."
It was midnight, judging as well as they could, when they crawled from
their hiding-place, and there was nothing for it but to take the path
again and go cautiously, as it was impossible in the darkness to travel
through the forest. But after following the path for half an hour it
lightened suddenly, and they perceived that it was only the thick
foliage that had kept the moonlight from reaching them. A few rods
further on they went, and a broad stream lay spread before them. On the
opposite shore lights could be seen, and the sound of wailing voices and
the beating of drums proclaimed the fact that some negro rite was there
in progress. The black man pointed with his finger, and Gifford held up
his hand as an order to halt.
"King Obani, he home," said the negro boy, nodding across the river.
"Three year ago English too 'm. No find gold."
"I know where I am now," whispered Gifford, excitedly. "This river is
the Mmymbi; that is Obani's chief town. Willoughby and the rangers took
it three years ago, and were fooled in getting the loot, don't you
remember. Eh? the idiots!"
"Well, what are we to do?" asked Mr. McFee.
"Thirty-five miles below is an English trading-station," Gifford said,
eagerly. "We must get a boat of some kind."
Tho black had waded knee-deep into the stream. He bent over with his
face close to the water, and then struck out silently.
"Come back here, you black rascal," hissed Gifford, raising his rifle.
But the boy's reply caused him to lower it.
"He says there's a boat tied to the branches of yonder tree," he
murmured.
Now by bending over all could see it plainly. The negro slid over the
side, and soon came back paddling it silently along the shore; the
others crawled in, and now, keeping well in the deep shadow of the
trees, they drifted down the stream; the cries and lights of the
Bangwali village grew fainter and fainter in the distance. When around
the bend of the river Gifford picked up a paddle, and they struck out at
full speed. Three hours' paddling and they were beyond King Obani's
jurisdiction, and by daylight they saw the clearing of the English
trader.
For some reason they chose not to tell their story, and the next morning
as they sat at breakfast a canoe shot down the stream. Some natives
landed.
"Hullo, here's news," said the trader's clerk as he approached the house
after meeting the native boat. "King Obani is dead."
"Then the mystery of his treasure dies with him," said the trader, for
the story was well known.
"Humph," observed Gifford, lighting his pipe.
"Mal, my boy, we'll return for the rest of it some day," whispered Mr.
McFee.
But he never did. Adventure seemed to be killed within him, and he and
Malcolm composed the firm McFee & Son, general merchants, at K----. And
here is where the story comes from.
RICK DALE.
BY KIRK MUNROE,
AUTHOR OF "SNOW-SHOES AND SLEDGES," "THE FUR-SEAL'S TOOTH," "THE 'MATE'
SERIES," "FLAMINGO FEATHER," ETC.