Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JULY 21, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 873. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
TIMID COUSIN VIC.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
To tell the story of Will Hall's trip to the tropics may seem like
telling dangerous secrets and getting people into trouble. But there is
this to be considered about it: If the Spaniards catch Will's father,
they will shoot him, anyhow; so it can do no harm to admit that Henry
Hall, who is Will's father, and David Hall, who is Will's uncle, are
engaged in the perilous business of carrying patriots across from the
Florida Keys to the Cuban coast.
Will has nothing whatever to do with this business, for he is a
school-boy in New York, storing his mind with regular and irregular
verbs, and a vast amount of information about football and '96 pneumatic
tires. So when his father took him down in the schooner to the Florida
Keys to visit Uncle David, Will had no idea that ten days after leaving
New York he would be crawling through a Cuban thicket, dodging Spanish
soldiers.
Matacumbia Key, at the very tip of Florida, where Uncle David lives with
his daughter Vic, is a long way from New York, and Will had never seen
either of them, and, of course, had never seen their house on the beach,
with the whole Florida Strait for a front yard, and nothing between
their shady piazza and the Cuban coast but eighty miles of salt water.
"There ought to be some sport down there," he told the boys before he
started. "Plenty of boating and fishing, you know, and cocoanut-trees,
with monkeys in them, I suppose, and maybe some sharks to kill.
Lonesome, though. You see, there ain't many people, and my cousin Vic is
only fourteen. A little country girl of fourteen can't be much company
for a New York chap nearly sixteen."
There was sport in plenty, but not exactly the kind that Will expected.
The "little country girl" took her cousin in hand in a way that
astonished him, and would have made him miserable if the Cuban adventure
had not given him a chance to show what he was made of.
At first Vic was shy--painfully shy. She kept her eyes cast down, and
only answered "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," when Will spoke to her.
"I think I can bring her out after a while," he said to himself. "Of
course she'd be a little timid at the start, 'specially with a fellow
from a big place like New York. She's a pretty girl, too."
About that there could be no doubt. Vic was large for her age, and the
tan on her round cheeks tried to hide their natural pink, but did not
quite succeed. When her work was done (for, being motherless, she was
cook and house-keeper), she generally put on her boating-suit of blue
flannel, which was as good as a bathing-suit, and it did not interfere
when she chose to wade out to her pet sharpie, anchored just off the
beach.
The fathers were busy with their schooner, and with the men camped in
the bush waiting to be carried over to Cuba, and Will and Vic were left
to their own resources.
"Can you shoot?" Vic asked one morning, very timidly, hardly raising her
eyes.
"Rather!" Will exclaimed. "I wish I'd brought my gun along."
"I have a rifle," Vic said, and ran into the house and brought the rifle
and a box of cartridges.
Will measured off thirty paces, and stood a big cocoanut on top of a
stump.
Vic handled the rifle as if she were afraid of it, and took the first
shot. The cocoanut did not stir. Then Will fired without hitting. After
three or four rounds Will's bullet grazed the side of the nut, and he
was duly elated.
"You'll be all right with more practice," he told her. "I've practised a
great deal in shooting-galleries."
"I think the mark is too low for me," she answered, with becoming
humility. "Pin a bit of paper to that tree beside the stump, about as
high as your head."
Will pinned up a scrap of paper half the size of his hand, and they
fired several rounds without touching it. Then Vic started toward the
house with the rifle.
"Not going to give it up, are you?" he called. But her only answer was
"Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five"--she was pacing. When she
reached "one hundred," she stopped and turned--one hundred paces from
the tiny mark.
"You stand there by the tree," she called, "and see whether I can hit
the old thing from here."
Will laughed, and obeyed. Crack! went the rifle.
"Why," he cried, "you've hit it right in the centre! I don't suppose you
could do that again in a week!"
"I'll try," Vic answered, and fired again.
"Well, upon my word!" Will shouted. "You've hit it again! What a
remarkable accident!"
Vic fired again, and made a third hole in the paper.
That time Will did not say a word. He began to suspect something. Vic
fired twice more, and made two more holes. The first hole was right in
the centre, and the other four made a neat little circle around it.
"All right, Cousin Vic," Will said, as he handed her the paper; "I owe
you one. You're a dead shot with a rifle, and you've been making a
beautiful guy of me."
But Vic only laughed, and looked as timid as ever.
Next morning the sky was overcast, and Will suggested a sail in Vic's
sixteen-foot sharpie.
"Don't you think it's rather rough?" she asked, looking doubtfully from
the sky to the water. "Do you think it would be safe?"
"Safe as a house!" Will answered, decidedly. "You needn't be afraid; I'm
an old hand with a boat."
After some hesitation Vic consented, and even determined that she had
better sail the boat herself, as she was more used to the rigging.
"All right," Will gallantly said. "If anything happens I can swim enough
for both of us."
The water was so much rougher than it looked from shore that Will began
to feel uneasy about having a girl at the helm. They were a mile from
the house, bobbing up and down on the waves like a cork in a mill-race,
when Vic said they had gone far enough, and put the tiller suddenly hard
down.
"Look out! Ease her up!" Will shouted; but it was too late. The sharpie
went over like a flash, and they were both thrown into the water.
Vic went down instantly, and then came up with her arms waving wildly.
"Help! help!" she cried, and the next instant she disappeared again.
Will was holding on to the slender foremast, but he let go and sprang
toward his cousin. When she came up again he seized her.
"Now do as I tell you, or we'll both drown," he said, as calmly as he
could. "Don't grab me, but put one hand on my back and let yourself
float."
She did as he told her, and he struck out toward the boat, and soon
righted it, for Will was an excellent swimmer. Vic seemed limp as a rag,
but he put her hands on the gunwale, and told her to hold on there while
he baled out the water, and then he climbed in and helped Vic in over
the stern.
"Take me home," she muttered, leaning helpless against the side, and
Will headed the boat for the beach.
"Oh, Will!" she said, when they were nearly back, "how can I ever thank
you for saving my life?"
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed; "that was nothing. You know I told you I am a
pretty good swimmer."
"A minute more--" she gasped; then her feelings overcame her, and she
buried her face in her hands.
When the boat was anchored, Vic waded ashore, and ran toward the house
very spryly for a girl who had been so weak a few minutes before. The
two fathers had returned, and were sitting on the piazza, and when Vic
ran up the steps, laughing, Will thought it was because she wished to
make as light as possible of her danger.
"Now, Mary Victoria Hall," her father said, much to Will's surprise,
"you've got to stop that sort of thing. I saw that little caper out in
the boat, and I'm not going to have you playing such tricks on your
cousin. You must look out for this girl, Will, as she is the worst tease
in Florida. There is not a better sailor than she in all the Keys, and
nothing could upset her unless she chose. Why, she sails that sharpie
fifteen miles to school every day in winter, and she knows every rock
and reef. She tipped you over purposely, to give you a ducking."
"Why, Uncle David--" Will interrupted.
"Nothing else," Mr. Hall went on; "and as to drowning, you might as well
try to drown a duck. She swam out to the Alligator Light, twenty miles,
when she was only twelve years old. She has been making game of you,
that's all."
"You see," Vic's father continued, "she is left alone here so much,
while I am away sponging and fishing, that I had to teach her to take
care of herself. But I don't want her to be playing her pranks on you
just because you live in a city and ain't used to girls who are good
sailors and good rifle-shots."
Vic looked very meek while her father was talking, but Will saw that she
was ready to laugh at any minute. When he went into the house to change
his clothes he was almost ready to admit that his trip to the Keys was a
dismal failure. That a crack football-player, an expert bicycler, a
leader in all the sports in a big school in the greatest city in the
country, should be outdone in everything by a little country girl who
looked as meek as a lamb, and be the butt of her jokes, was enough to
make him feel uncomfortable. Two days after Will's gallant rescue of his
cousin from no danger at all, he and Vic were left alone. Their fathers
had sailed for Cuba in the schooner, with eighty men and hundreds of
cases of ammunition. If all went well, they would be back from Cuba the
following night. But if all did not go well? The cousins knew that any
slight mishap might bring trouble into both families, and they were
unusually quiet.
At nine o'clock in the morning Will went out on the piazza, and the
white appearance of the water surprised him. So did the wind, coming in
a steady sweep from the northward, cooling the air, and churning the
Florida Strait into foam. Vic soon joined him, looking anxiously from
water to sky and sky to water, and shook her head.
An hour later he found her pacing the piazza, looking very much
troubled. The wind had increased, and the water was wild and furious.
"It is a norther," she said, "and a bad one. I don't see why it had to
come to-day."
"It is a fair wind to carry them to Cuba," Will suggested.
"It is just the wind to drive them on the rocks and wreck them," Vic
retorted. "They will certainly try to land to-night, and they have only
one little boat. That would be nothing among all those men."
She took two or three more turns up and down, and then stopped.
"I am going to cross the straits in my sharpie, Will," she said. "If
anything happens to them the sharpie may be of great assistance. It is
the best little sea-boat I know of."
"To cross to Cuba, you mean?" Will asked, without showing any great
surprise.
"Yes," she answered. "It is only eighty miles, and I can make it before
dark. I have made longer voyages than that."
"It will be a nice little sail," Will laughed. "If you happen to meet a
Spanish cruiser, you might capture her and bring her home."
He was on his guard for another practical joke, and did not intend to be
caught. But Vic walked up to him and seized his arm with a very earnest
grip.
"Don't think I am trying to play another trick on you, Will," she said,
"for I am not. You don't know what danger this storm puts both our
fathers in. I may be able to help them, and I am going to try."
Her earnest manner left no doubt that she meant what she said, and Will
became serious.
"I don't know whether a small boat can live in that sea," he said, "but
if you start for Cuba, I am going with you."
Vic was not prepared for such an answer as this; but she had known Will
only for a few days. Any of his schoolmates could have told her that
where there was real danger to be faced he would be at the front. She
protested against his going, for she knew the peril of such a trip in so
small a boat; but Will was firm as a rock, and even while she urged him
to stay behind he waded out to the sharpie and began to make it ready.
"If your father is in danger," he said, "so is mine. You know I am going
if you go, so what's the use of talking?"
That eighty-mile sail across the Florida Strait in a raging storm is one
of the things that Will cannot be induced to talk much about. It is a
sort of nightmare to him. There was not only the physical danger, which
was serious enough, but there was the chance that their fathers might
land safely, and then blame them severely for undertaking such a voyage.
Vic had put a jug of water and a box of biscuits under the stern seat,
and she took the tiller as a matter of course. Will was kept busy baling
out the water, which came over the sides in a fury of spray. But Vic
knew that that spray was all in their favor. The force of the wind was
so great that it kept the sea down by sweeping off the crests of waves,
though it made an appalling smother of foam.
If a boy can sit with his heart in his throat for nearly nine hours at a
stretch, Will Hall did it that day. In a few hours the spray made crusts
of salt upon both their faces, and in the furious gale talking was
almost impossible. But through it all Vic kept the little sharpie headed
due south, for she knew that the schooner would try to land just to the
eastward of Cardenas.
At four o'clock in the afternoon, with the mountains of Cuba looming up
bold before them, they passed a broken mast floating on the water,
weighted with torn and knotted rigging. They could not go near enough to
make sure whether it was part of the schooner or not. But it looked
serious.
Two hours later they were in behind the reefs, and then the doubt was
settled. All around them, in the comparatively smooth water, floated
wreckage from some vessel that had gone to pieces, and the fragments of
white-painted planks told the melancholy story.
"We must lie alongshore till dark," Will declared, "and then make a
search, for they may be in hiding. I still have hopes that they may have
escaped from the schooner. Then the next thing will be to escape from
the Spaniards, and there we can help them with the sharpie."
Somehow it was Will who was in command now of the relief expedition. On
the water Vic was confident of herself; but when the danger was from the
Spanish coast-guard, she looked naturally to Will for directions.
About eight o'clock the darkness came rapidly and they started inland to
search for tidings, leaving the sharpie hidden among the bushes on the
shore of a little inlet. It was a desolate part of the coast, and so far
they had not seen a living person. Will picked up a stout piece of
driftwood for a club.
"If there is a house anywhere in the neighborhood, we must find it," he
said. "The people will know whether any one was saved from the wreck.
They will most likely be Cubans, and therefore friends. Keep your eyes
and ears open, Vic, for we must dodge the Spaniards."
Hardly anything could have been more hopeless than such a search made by
a boy and girl who knew nothing of the country, nothing of the language,
but groped their way in pitch darkness through a dense forest. But they
were Americans, and both knew that the sharpie might mean escape from
death for their fathers, if their fathers were not already drowned.
Presently they discovered a path and followed it, tripping over roots
and rocks, stumbling, scratching their faces with thorns.
"Oh, Will!" Vic exclaimed, after a collision with a sharp cactus. "I
can't go any further. I don't know what to do!" And she began to cry.
"Don't think of yourself at all, Vic," Will urged. "I can take care of
you. Maybe your father is hiding in these very woods, and our boat may
save him. We can't go back and desert them. We must push on and find
somebody, even if it is a Spanish soldier. Hist!"
The prospect of finding a Spanish soldier was nearer than he thought,
for the words were hardly out of his mouth before they heard the sound
of men tramping through the bushes.
As they stood and listened the sounds grew nearer--sounds of many feet,
and words of command in Spanish.
"Come away from the path!" Will whispered, and seizing Vic's arm, he
drew her into the underbrush, and on hands and knees they crawled away
from the danger.
In a moment more the soldiers passed; thousands of them, they thought,
by the sound, but in reality something less than a hundred. When Will
and his cousin resumed their feet they could not find the path. To add
to their troubles, they were lost in the Cuban forest.
How long they struggled through the sharp bushes they did not know till
afterward; but when they stopped it was because a stone wall stood in
their way--the stone wall of a small cabin. Will felt his way along the
wall till he found the door, but it was shut and locked. He rapped, but
there was no response.
"I am afraid it is deserted," he said; "but maybe we can get in to wait
for daylight."
Again he rapped at the door, and softly called: "Hello! Let us in! We
are Americans and friends."
Suddenly the door opened, and a familiar voice answered. "Will Hall, how
do you come to be here?"
"What's that?" said another voice inside; and Will and Vic needed no
further telling that their fathers were found.
In another minute they were inside the dark cabin, and the door was
barred.
"Where is your boat?" both the men asked, almost in the same breath.
"Down by the shore," Will answered, "hidden in the bushes."
"Then you have pulled us out of a tough scrape," said Vic's father.
"Twice we have narrowly escaped capture, and we expected to be taken
before daylight."
After the wreck of the schooner they and all the men had reached shore
safely, and the men had gone on into the mountains. But the small boat
was stove, and the two Americans were in a trap. They had found the
cabin, and hidden there from the Spanish guard.
Vic leaned heavily upon her father when they started for the boat; and
before they reached the shore he and Will were carrying her, for her
strength was gone.
"No wonder she is used up," said Will, as the boat beat out to the
eastward, tacking tediously toward the American coast; "no wonder, after
all she has been through. But how she kept up till we found you! She is
the bravest girl in Florida, Uncle David. Our coming after you was all
her doing."
Whatever the others said about Will's share in the rescue, it was enough
to warrant him in saying, as he does when the boys begin to talk about
the Cuban war: "Yes, I've had a little hand in that thing myself. So has
my Cousin Vic."
HOW MAGIC IS MADE.
BY HENRY HATTON.
VI.
(_Conclusion._)
"How does Professor ---- cause a handkerchief to leave a decanter which
he holds in his hand, and appear in another at a distance?" writes a
correspondent.
Well, that depends on who the "Professor" is. One man, who says he would
as lief receive a slap in the face as to be called _Professor_, does a
trick somewhat like it in this way:
Two water-bottles, or carafes, the kind with large round bottoms and
wide necks, are used. Concealed in his right hand this man has a red
silk handkerchief folded into small compass. One of the carafes he
proceeds to wrap in a large handkerchief, holding it mouth downward for
this purpose, and it is while so wrapping it that he pops the concealed
handkerchief into the mouth of the bottle, which he stands, covered, on
the table. So much for getting the handkerchief in.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
Running up his right sleeve is a fine strong cord; this goes across his
back and out of the left arm hole of his vest, and ends in a loop which
reaches nearly to his waist. At the end of the cord by the right hand is
a piece of fine black sewing-silk, which is fastened into the eye of a
strong, short needle, and this needle is bent[1] into the form of a
double-jointed hook, as shown in Fig. 1. In this shape it will not catch
in the sleeve.
[1] The needle can easily be bent by heating it in a gas or lamp flame.
When it has acquired the proper form it should again be heated, and,
while still hot, be plunged into oil.
As the man is returning to his stage after showing the second carafe and
handkerchief to the audience, he attaches the hook to the latter. Then
he pushes it well down into the carafe, using his wand for the purpose.
Taking the carafe around the neck with his right hand, so that the mouth
is almost at his wrist, he swings it back and forth, and then counting
"_One--two--three!_" slips his left thumb into the loop, and at the word
"_three_," gives a sharp jerk, and the handkerchief flies up his sleeve.
As he stands with his right side toward the audience, and all eyes are
fixed on the carafe, the movement of the left hand and arm is not
noticed. The carafe which is on the table is now uncovered, and most of
the audience, seeing the handkerchief, imagine it is the same one that
was in the bottle, and that in some way inexplicable to them it has
passed invisibly from one place to the other.
Another performer pursues a different method. When he comes on the
stage, he too has a handkerchief concealed in his right hand, but
it is already fastened to the thread attached to the cord which goes
up the sleeve. This cord is connected with what is known as a
_spring-barrel_--that is, a heavy coiled steel spring in a brass box,
very much like a spring tape-measure.
He holds the carafe in his left hand, to show that it is empty, and then
reaching with his right to the tail pocket of his coat, he pretends to
take out the handkerchief, which he shows. This he pushes with a
forefinger and his wand into the carafe. The spring-barrel is under his
vest at the left side, and when it is time for the handkerchief to leave
the carafe, a gentle pressure with the left-hand fingers on the button
of the spring-barrel sets the cord in motion, and sends the handkerchief
whizzing up his sleeve.
The spring makes a great noise, and to conceal this the man calls out,
"One! two! three!--_go!_" shouting the last word, and accompanying it by
a stamp of the foot and a crash at the piano, which is deafening.
The second carafe stands uncovered on a table, and has a small hole
drilled in its bottom. The duplicate handkerchief which is to make its
appearance in the carafe is arranged as follows: The centre is gathered
into a point, and through this is run one end of a long double black
thread. Both ends of this thread are led inside the neck of the carafe
and out through the hole in the bottom, and again through a
corresponding hole in the table, to the hands of an assistant, who is
beneath the stage. The handkerchief hangs at the back of the table,
where it cannot be seen by the audience. When it is to appear in the
carafe, the hidden assistant gives a strong and quick pull on both ends
of the thread, and the handkerchief flies so quickly into the carafe
that it is impossible for the eye to follow it. When it is once inside
the bottle the assistant pulls _on one end of the thread_, and thus soon
pulls it through. The handkerchief is now detached, and may be taken out
of the bottle to convince the audience that it is in no wise connected
with any string.
Such wonderful tales are told by travellers of the feats of Indian
magicians that many believe them to be more than human. I have never
been to India, but two very clever conjurers who visited that country,
the late Robert Heller and Samri Baldwin, have assured me that they have
never seen anything but the most commonplace tricks performed there. I,
for one, believe them, for they understood every move that was made, and
could not be deceived. Some years ago a theatrical manager introduced a
company of Indian jugglers at his theatre, but their tricks were so
transparent that they did not succeed in creating any great impression
on the public.
More recently a troupe of these wonderful jugglers visited us, and
appeared at the Chicago Exposition and in other places through the
country. They did the famous trick of putting a man in a basket and
apparently making him disappear. It was very bad, and yet Dr. Hodgson,
of Boston, who visited India in the interest of the London Psychical
Society, says it was done exactly as it is done in India. One really
clever trick they did which has as yet not been explained, and that I
shall make plain.
[Illustration: THE HINDOO BOAT.]
"The Hindoo Boat," a block of wood roughly hewed into the shape of a
boat was shown. It was hollowed out inside. Near the bow was a
cross-piece having a hole in the centre, and in this was inserted a
hollow mast. The other end of this mast was stuck into a hole made in a
cocoanut, which had been cleaned out inside. Below the centre of the
cocoanut was another hole smaller than the one which admitted the mast.
The performer filled the body of the boat with water from a pitcher,
splashing it about his table, and making a great muss. He also filled
the cocoanut. Then at the word of command the water flowed or stopped
flowing from the hole at E. As the performer stood at a distance from
the boat, he had evidently no connection with it, though every control
over it.
The secret lies in the fact that the boat was pierced near the bottom
with another hole, F, which allowed the water slowly to trickle out. As
soon as enough had escaped to bring the water below the cross-piece, the
air would rush up the hollow mast, and the water would be forced out of
the hole E. This would soon fill the boat again, and as soon as that
happened the flow would cease. The performer had only to watch the water
in the boat, and be guided by that in giving his commands. It is nothing
more than the old story of the Tantalus cup in a new form.
A stage illusion which will compare favorably with the Hindoo tricks is
the one known as "Flyto." In this a human being disappears from a large
wooden cage which seemingly can conceal no one, and reappears in another
cage which is swinging in the air.
[Illustration: THE FIRST CAGE.]
The first cage, or "cabinet," as it is called, is about seven feet high
from bottom to top, and stands on slight legs, so that the spectator may
look under it. It is hexagon in shape, and is made up, front, back, and
sides, of doors. These doors are of slats placed about two inches apart,
so that the audience can look in and through the entire cabinet. Inside
the doors are red curtains on spring rollers. The background of the
stage, or _flat_, is covered with green cloth, and the same material is
on the floor of the stage. Outside on the top of the cabinet are four
chains uniting in the centre in a ring.
When the cabinet is first brought out the inner curtains are pulled
down. The cabinet is run down toward the foot-lights, and turned
completely around so that all sides may be seen. It is then pushed well
back on the stage, four of the doors are thrown open, and all the
curtains are run up. The audience can now see through every part. The
curtains are pulled down and the doors are closed.
A girl dressed in a fantastical costume comes on the stage and enters
the cabinet. She is hardly inside when the performer again throws open
the doors, and a tall man in military dress is seen inside. The girl has
gone. The curtains are run up, but nothing is to be seen of the missing
girl, and certainly there is no place to conceal her. The military
gentleman pulls down the curtains, steps out of the cabinet, closes the
door, and with the help of the performer once more rolls the cabinet
towards the foot-lights. A rope is let down from the flies, fastened to
the ring on top of the cabinet, and the machine is hoisted into the air.
In the mean time the girl, or some one like her, has come down the
centre aisle of the theatre and mounted the stage.
[Illustration: THE SECOND CAGE.]
A second cabinet, exactly like the first but a trifle smaller, is rolled
on the stage, and this the young lady enters. No sooner are the doors
closed than the performer cries out, "Where are you?" "Here," comes the
answer; the curtains fly up in the swinging cabinet, and there stands
the girl. The doors of the second cabinet are opened, but it is empty.
As my readers may surmise, there are two girls in this trick as well as
two cabinets. While it is not always possible to find twin sisters so
like that you cannot "tell one from both," these girls in their dress
and make up must look as much alike as possible. When the first cabinet
is rolled on the stage the "soldier" is inside, but, as you will
remember, the curtains are down. As soon as the cabinet is placed in
position at the back of the stage Mr. Soldierman steps out of the back
door and stands on the ledge.
_The two back doors are furnished on the outside with green curtains_ of
the same shade as the background and the stage covering, and herein lies
the whole secret of the trick, for the audience do not see through those
doors, but merely think they do.
When the girl enters the cabinet she changes places with the soldier.
Afterward when the curtains are down and the doors closed she re-enters
the cabinet, where she remains till she releases the curtains when she
is swinging aloft. With some slight modifications the trick might be
arranged for the drawing-room.
Most of the cabinet tricks shown on the stage depend on a back door. One
magician has used it for many years, and showed considerable ingenuity
in the way in which he managed to introduce the person who was to
produce the "manifestations." My reader must not understand by this that
he was aided by a second person in all his cabinet manifestations. When
he was tied with ropes and placed in the cabinet all the manifestations
that took place there were produced by him without assistance from any
one. In such cases he simply releases one hand, having secured slack
while he was being tied up by the committee, and with this one hand he
rings the bells, shakes the tambourines, and "raises ructions"
generally. Later on, when he ties himself up and re-enters the cabinet,
he is tied in such a way that he can free both hands, and is enabled to
take off his own coat and put on some other man's, and do all the other
"two-hand acts."
Lately he has taken to building his cabinet in full view of the audience
so that there may be no possibility of concealing any one in it. He
brings out a platform mounted on legs with heavy casters, puts up the
back and sides, which are hinged together, and screws them in place;
then adjusts the front in which are the doors. Gradually in the process
of putting this together the cabinet is pushed about until for a moment
it backs against the "flat." That moment is not lost, for the one who is
to produce the manifestations steps through the scene on to the ledge
back of the cabinet, and there clings. No sooner is the front up and
secured than he enters by the back door. The cabinet is now turned
around, and when it is again in position well "up stage," its occupant
once more takes his place on the back ledge. Now the doors are opened
and closed. The man re-enters, rings the bells, blows the horns, knocks
over the chairs, and while the clatter is at its height, escapes to the
back again just as the doors are opened for the last time.
The performer bows. The curtain falls.
NOTE.--Articles on this subject have appeared in the following
numbers of the ROUND TABLE: Nos. 844, 852, 862, 866, 869.
CROSSING THE XUACAXÉLLA.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS, U. S. A.
CHAPTER II.
The following day we were delayed so that we did not begin our journey
until three o'clock. When we drove away, as long as we were in sight of
the post, Frank and Henry looked back at Vic, who was straining at a
cord which held her to a hinge of the great gates, uttering dismal
canine lamentations at being left. The pleasure of their excursion
seemed to be marred at the outset by the absence of their constant
companion and pet.
At the time of which I write there were but two wagon roads out of
Prescott--one through Fort Whipple to the northeast, and one to the
north. We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite
Range for eight miles, when we passed through a rugged notch in the
range to Mint Creek, where the road made an acute angle, and followed a
generally southerly direction to La Paz.
We halted for the night at the creek, fifteen miles from the fort. Our
ambulance was provided with four seats--one in front for the driver,
fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle seat,
the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the interval
between the others, and afforded a comfortable bed. On the rack behind
were carried the bedding, provisions, ammunition, and cooking utensils,
and beneath the hind axle swung a ten-gallon keg.
While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the
camping-place in search of the mint which gave the creek its name, and
in a fruitless hunt for some ducks they had seen settle in the reeds.
Clary called them to supper, and they joined me around a blanket where
our soldier meal was spread. While we were sugaring and stirring our
coffee the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods in his hands,
upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling before the glowing
coals. Suddenly he exclaimed:
"Look there, b'ys!--look there!" raising and pointing with both sticks
and the rashers of bacon toward the cane grass behind us.
There in its very edge sat Vic, winking her eyes and twitching her ears
deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her reception.
"Stop, boys! Keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her
direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?"
No reply; only a slow closing and opening of the eyes, and an
accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears.
"Go home! Go!"
The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly, disappeared
with drooping tail in the tall grass. Both boys exclaimed at once:
"Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic."
"Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you she
may go."
The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing and
pitying the dog, telling her it was all right and she could go. But it
was evident she doubted their authority to give her permission to join
us, for Henry presently came running towards me.
"She won't come, sir. She keeps moving slowly back in the direction of
the fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she
feels, and it is a long distance to Whipple. Can't she stay with us
until morning?"
"Then she will not come in with you?"
"No. She has always followed me unless you told her not to. She never
disobeys you."
"But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience."
"Did you tell her not to come?"
"No; I forgot to."
"Did she hear you tell Hoey to tie her to the gate?"
"No. He was in my room at the time, and the dog was with you at the
corral."
"Then she's not to blame, sir. She's a military dog, and never disobeys
orders."
"But how guilty she looked!"
"I do not think it is guilt that made her look so. If you had given her
a positive order not to come she would have staid without being tied.
She had expected to go, and she is terribly sorry at being left. She
thinks there has been a mistake, and came out to see about it."
"Perhaps you are right, Henry. She's certainly obeying orders now and
going back."
"Yes, sir, and in spite of our coaxing her to stay."
"I'll let her go with us. Let us try an experiment. You know some people
believe dogs understand what people say."
"Yes, sir; I know Vic does."
"I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch. Here,
Vicky, little girl, you may go with us."
Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She
sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and
then approached the fire and looked for her share of the supper. It was
settled in her dog mind that she was going with us.
We resumed our journey the next morning with the first crack of dawn,
and rode to Skull Valley. The first section of the road ran through a
rough, mountainous, and wooded country. At the end of twenty miles it
entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain
which had been occupied by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. I was
well acquainted with the people, and called at the log house of a Mr.
Sage to make inquiries about the horse-thieves, and to purchase some
eggs for our next camp.
As the ambulance rattled up to the door two young women appeared, whom I
recognized as Mrs. Sage and Mrs. Bell. To my inquiry for her husband
Mrs. Sage replied that he and Mr. Bell had left for La Paz eight days
before, and were expected home that day.
"Sorry he is not here," I said; "I wanted to inquire about two
horse-thieves who probably passed through the valley two weeks ago."
"A Mexican and a white man?" asked Mrs. Sage, making a distinction in
complexion rather than in race.
"Yes; the first rode a cream-colored pony, and the last a black--the
property of these boys."
"They were here to breakfast; arrived before we were up. The Greaser
wanted to swap his saddle for a Mexican saddle, but husband wouldn't
swap, so he bought it."
"Did he leave the one he brought, Mrs. Sage?" asked Henry.
"Yes; it's hanging on a peg beside the door in the linter."
Both boys ran to the lean-to and presently returned with Henry's neat
McClellan saddle. It had been stripped of its pouches and small straps,
but was otherwise unharmed.
"What shall I pay you for this?" asked the boy.
"Oh, nothing! It cost us nothing, and I make no charge for storage. If
it's any use to you, take it."
"I wonder why Jumping Jack took off all the trimmings, sir?" said Henry
to me.
"Oh, I forgot to mention," said Mrs. Sage, "that the saddle the Greaser
bought had nothing on it, so he shifted everything off of this to that."
"Well, I'll shift everything back if we catch him, and when I come back
I'll call and report. Thank you for the saddle."
"You are entirely welcome to your property, I'm sure. Shall be glad to
see you enjoying your pony when you return."
The saddle was placed in the ambulance, and after buying some eggs and
vegetables we started, the boys expressing their satisfaction at the
result of our call, and feeling sanguine that we were on the trail of
the thieves. We left the valley by a steep ascent into a mountainous
range, and had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and
rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom we
had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley by a
short cut.
"I have a letter for you, Lieutenant," said he, approaching the
ambulance.
Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat. A
heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves over
the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles.
"Xenophon's _Memorabilia_, Euripides' _Alcestis_ and _Medea_, a Greek
grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you doing with
these college text-books on the La Paz trail?"
"Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the brown
of his face.
"What are conditions?" asked Henry.
"Oh blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening
it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in
the way of successful rowing men and footballists by non-appreciative
college professors."
"'Joseph Gould Baldwin, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the
fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Baldwin?"
"I'm so borne on the catalogue."
During this conversation the letter had been handed to me, but I held it
unopened in my hand while I listened.
"Please explain, Mr. Baldwin," I said, "how a college-boy happens to be
in Arizona running the gauntlet of this mail route and making up
conditions in Greek?"
"I was stroke in the celebrated crew that won the championship for
Yalvard at New London a year ago, and got behind in these. I was
conditioned, and being ashamed to go home, struck out for myself on the
Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle ranch until I
was dead broke. This place offered, and I took it because I could find
nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on the
Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father."
"Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Baldwin," observed Henry. "We've heard
about you; you are too brave."
"Thank you, Henry. No; I've not wasted my substance in riotous living,
nor eaten husks; but I've been prodigal in wasting opportunities."
"Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked.
"I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been
coaching me. He thinks I can go on with my old class. This is my last
trip, and after I am paid off I am going to work hard for a few months,
and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in
that letter which concerns me."
Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Baldwin's
story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that
after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's
Wells, and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also
suggested that in establishing a transshipment store-house at the
steamboat-landing I place Baldwin in charge. The pay would be of use to
him while "making up."
[Illustration: I SAW HIM FIRE THREE SHOTS FROM HIS CARBINE IN RAPID
SUCCESSION.]
Baldwin wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling
canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when my
advance-guard shouted for me to look out. Doing so, I saw the courier
standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the highest point of the
road. He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three
shots from his carbine in rapid succession. I dismounted the men, and
made the necessary preparation to meet an attack. Slowly we worked up
the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the summit found
Baldwin and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter
among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope.
"What is it, Baldwin?" I asked.
"A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. I think they would have
done it, too, but for the sudden appearance of Clary and Hoey. There
they go now--across that opening in the sage-brush!"
A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too
far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over
supporting a third between them.
"You must have hit one of them."
"I tried to. I think another felt the sting of a bullet, from the way he
flung himself about."
"Are you hurt?"
"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."
An examination of Baldwin's arm proved that the scratch was not serious,
but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a
soldier. We went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance
leaders.
"There's something down there in the road by Ferrin's grave, sir," said
Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."
"Is this where Ferrin was killed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; I came here with a detail to look him up. He had built a
little stone fort on that knoll up yonder and kept the redskins off four
days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of
them; but they got him at last. They scattered the mail in shreds along
the road for miles."
"Who was Ferrin?" Frank asked.
"He was a discharged California volunteer who rode the express before
Mr. Baldwin."
"Do you think Mr. Baldwin knew his predecessor had been killed?"
"Yes; the story is well known. You boys were down at Postal's ranch when
it happened."
"I can't see why Mr. Baldwin took the place. If we had not been along he
would have been killed to-day."
"No doubt of it."
We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught sight
of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle against a
bowlder; a serious mishap as our after-experience will show. Walking on
we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several yards apart, whom we
had no difficulty in recognizing to be the ranchmen Sage and Bell. I
sent a man back to Skull Valley to report their death, and with the axe,
bayonets, and tin-cups dug a shallow grave beside Ferrin's. We placed
them side by side and heaped a pyramid of stones above them.
The courier again bade us good-by, and, our messenger to Skull Valley
having returned, we went on. The further ride through the mountain-pass
was accomplished without adventure, and evening found us encamped at
Willow Springs. These springs were surrounded by immense bowlders of
coarse granite which was undergoing slow disintegration; the whole
region being covered with a coarse gravel, which had once been a part of
the solid granite strata. In fact the springs were not only surrounded
but buried beneath the gravel. We scooped it away to find the crystal
water which lay beneath. The boys shot a few quail here of the variety
known as the California quail, distinguished by an elegant plume of six
feathers on the top of the head. Clary broiled them for breakfast.
The road the following day was so rough that for much of the way we were
unable to move faster than a walk, the slow walk of draught animals.
Small fragments of granite filled the track, making it impossible to
trot. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some
rifle-pits sunk there, the Corporal called my attention to a pool of
blood in the road. Instantly the boys and I thought the gallant young
courier had met with death. Leaving the ambulance we examined the
locality thoroughly. Moccasin tracks filled a clump of sage-brush on the
left, and a few crossed to the pool of blood. Tracks of two horses and a
mule, and shoes of white men mingled with the others.
The signs showed that two men had fallen, that one had been wounded, and
that a second party had come and taken the wounded man away. The place
was well adapted for a surprise. On the left was a long dense growth of
low shrubbery extending from the road to the foot of a mountain-range.
On the opposite side was an open plain.
We were going on again when Frank remarked,
"There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road."
"Yes; a war party must be out, bent upon serious mischief. They have
struck at two points, and I fear a third--Date Creek--may have been
attacked by this time. That is where we are to stay to-night." Then,
turning to Corporal Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the
creek is softy and loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; keep
the men quiet. If the Indians are at the ranch, it will be best for us
to appear unexpectedly."
"Do Indians never stand up like white men in a fight?" the younger boy
asked.
"Frequently; but their system is different from ours--although modern
tactics seem to be adopting Indian methods, and the white man fights in
open lines, lies down, and creeps in a manner he formerly condemned."
Although this section of our march was but twenty-five miles long, our
rate of progress had been so slow that the day was nearly closed before
we came in sight of the line of cottonwoods that bordered Date Creek. We
turned at last sharply to the left, and began a descent through a narrow
ravine towards the creek. We were nearing its widening mouth when a
half-dozen sharp reports of fire-arms broke upon our ears. A halt was
ordered, and the men directed to prevent the animals from betraying our
presence by whinnying or braying. Directing Sergeant Henry to remain
behind and keep Vic with him, I went on in advance with Sergeant Frank.
"What do you think is going on?" asked my companion, as several more
reports rang out.
"What I feared; the Apaches are attacking the men who went out to bring
in the dead or wounded men at Soldiers' Holes."
"And if Mr. Baldwin was not the wounded man there, I suppose he is sure
to be in this scrape. Why not rush in with the escort and frighten them
away?"
"No doubt we could frighten them if they are not too many," I answered;
"but we have good reason to believe that they are out in force, and it
will be prudent for us to learn the situation at the ranch before we go
nearer. I want to join the white men without the Indians' knowledge, if
possible. Our presence seems to be unknown to both parties."
"Then Mr. Baldwin must be the man killed."
"He may be there, and the men may know we are on the road; but it
certainly does not look like it."
"Can't Vic be sent with a message?"
"No; she does not know the locality, nor has she any friends at the
ranch. She will not take a message to a stranger."
We had now reached a point from which we could see a log cabin, a
stable, and an open shed. On the side of the buildings toward us, as if
screening themselves from an enemy in the opposite direction, were a few
men.
"If you would like me to, I can crawl to the house without being seen,"
said Frank. "That cart, wagon, and stack will screen me."
"Yes, you can do it easily. Tell Mr. Hopkins we are here, and to make no
demonstration when we close up. I will explain a plan to him which, I
think, will enable us to teach the Apaches a lesson. If you find Mr.
Baldwin there, tell him to show himself at a window or door."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]