[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 844. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
THE FATE OF LA SALLE.
BY ROBERT H. FULLER.
In early times America was to the Spaniards a region of silver and gold,
which were to be wrung from the natives and squandered in Europe; to the
French and the Dutch it was a country of furs, which were to be
purchased from the Indians for beads, knives, and guns, and sold across
the sea at an enormous profit; to the English it was a land of homes,
with liberty to think and act. Thus, while the Spaniards were delving in
the mines of Mexico and Peru and freighting their argosies, and while
the French couriers of the woods were steering their fur-laden canoes
down the St. Lawrence, the English colonists along the Atlantic coast
were cultivating the soil, making and enforcing laws, and gaining a
foothold which was to remain firm long after their more restless and
adventurous neighbors had vanished from the New World.
Nevertheless, the early French explorers, heedless of danger, bold and
free as the Indians themselves, threading rivers and exploring lakes in
their canoes, ranging through limitless solitudes of forest or over
interminable wastes of prairie, performed a service of the utmost value
to the future nation. They mapped out the road which slower but surer
feet were to follow, and if they could not organize and hold the
enormous territory which they claimed, at least they prepared it for
those who could.
Above the crowd of ragged and fearless adventurers who throng through
the history of France's vain endeavors to found an empire in the Western
World, the figure of Réné-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de la Salle, towers
like a statue of bronze. He was born in 1643, and was the son of a rich
merchant of Rouen. A brief connection with the religious order of the
Jesuits deprived him of his inheritance, and at the age of twenty-two he
sailed for Canada to seek his fortune, turning his back upon the Old
World, as did many another young Frenchman of gentle breeding at that
time.
He was granted an estate, afterward named La Chine, near Montreal. The
name of the place is a memory of the belief, long cherished by the
French, that by way of the St. Lawrence, the Great Lakes, and the
Mississippi, a passage to the Pacific Ocean and the wealth of the East
might be found. On his domain, which served as an outpost of Montreal
against the incursions of the ferocious Iroquois, he lived a life of
rude freedom, ruling like a young seigneur over the tenants who gathered
about his stockade.
But he could not long remain quiet. The thirst for adventure was strong
upon him, and, listening to the tales of his Indian visitors, he
determined to explore the Ohio and the Mississippi to the "Vermilion
Sea," or the Gulf of California, into which he was convinced the great
river flowed. At his own expense he fitted out an expedition, and pushed
boldly into the trackless wilderness.
This was the beginning of a career of hardship and danger, of successes
achieved in the teeth of seemingly insurmountable obstacles and in spite
of the plots of powerful enemies, with a steadfast fortitude
unparalleled in the annals of discovery. La Salle's dream of reaching
the Pacific was soon dispelled; but it was the nature of his mind to
rear new plans on the ruins of the old. He never grew discouraged. In
the presence of calamities which would have overwhelmed a less stout
heart his brain was busy seeking new paths to the end he had in view.
At his first step he encountered the jealous hostility of the Jesuits,
then powerful both at Quebec and Paris. To this was added the enmity of
those interested in the fur trade, who feared that he would disturb
their traffic; the hatred of all who had betrayed, deserted, and robbed
him--no small number; and the annoyances of such as had been induced to
invest in his schemes when his own resources were exhausted. While he
was absent, bearing the flag of France over thousands of miles of new
territory, slanderers and detractors were busy at home destroying his
credit, thwarting his plans, ridiculing his hopes, and seeking to rob
him of his honors. The obstacles cast in his path by nature or savage
tribes were slight when compared with those reared against him by his
own country men. But, unshaken in his purpose, he toiled on year after
year, enduring exposure, hunger, cold, illness, and treachery, exploring
the Ohio and the Illinois, and finally, in 1682, descending the
Mississippi to its mouth.
This was his crowning exploit. He was now a man of middle age, inured to
peril and hardship, and burdened with a heavy load of responsibility. He
was stern, reserved, and self-reliant. There were few besides Tonti, his
devoted lieutenant, upon whom he could rely. His followers were fickle
savages or, worse still, the idle and insubordinate offscour of Europe.
He had built and equipped a vessel on the lakes, and she had been sunk
with her cargo. He had nearly finished another on the Illinois, when his
men mutinied in his absence, and deserted. He had erected forts and
planted colonies, which were destroyed or ordered abandoned by a hostile
governor. He had been robbed again and again of the stores and supplies
which he had transported at great cost into the wilderness, and of the
furs which he sent back to Canada. At last he felt that if he was to
secure for France the rich valley of the Mississippi and the boundless
region drained by its tributaries, and repay his creditors through the
monopoly of the trade which he hoped to establish there, he must secure
the support of the King himself. Accordingly he turned toward France.
His plan found favor with Louis XIV. and his ministers. He was given
four vessels, which carried, besides supplies, a hundred soldiers,
mechanics and laborers, several families, a number of girls who hoped to
find husbands in the new colony, and thirty volunteers. Among these last
were several boys, two of them his own nephews, of whom one was destined
to be the cause of his death. The expedition was to make a settlement at
the mouth of the Mississippi, and organize a force to sweep the
Spaniards out of New Mexico. This La Salle promised to do. At last,
after so many trials and disappointments, he seemed to stand on the
threshold of success.
But the dark cloud of misfortune which had so long lowered above his
head reappeared when the vessels approached their destination. Numbers
of the colonists fell ill on the voyage. At St. Domingo, La Salle
himself was stricken down by fever, and his life was despaired of. One
of his vessels was taken by Spanish pirates, and his men grew
discontented and undisciplined. To cap the climax, the fleet missed the
mouth of the Mississippi, and the colonists landed four hundred miles to
the westward, at Matagorda Bay. There another vessel was lost while
attempting to enter the harbor, and a third, which had acted as escort
only, returned to France.
It did not take the unhappy pioneers long to discover that they were not
on the Mississippi, and La Salle, with unabated energy, set out in
search of the "fatal river." He did not find it, and on his return the
last of the vessels was lost, removing all hope of escape by sea. The
sufferings of the little colony were great, and La Salle formed the
desperate resolution of penetrating through the wilderness to Canada for
help. Some of his followers afterward escaped by this dangerous path,
but he himself was never to see Canada again. On the march food ran
short, and seven men were sent out to forage. Among them was a man named
Duhaut, who hated La Salle, and had once deserted him. The party killed
some buffaloes, and were curing the meat when one of La Salle's nephews,
Moranget, who had been sent in search of them with a companion, arrived.
Moranget did not lack courage, but he did lack prudence. He angered the
men by finding fault with them unjustly.
Duhaut seized the opportunity, and drew four of the others into his
plot. That night Moranget and his companion, with La Salle's faithful
Indian servant, were murdered as they slept. The next morning, La Salle,
full of anxious foreboding at his nephew's failure to return, went after
him in company with a priest. Even in his defenceless condition the
wretches who had resolved on his death did not dare to attack him
openly. Crouched in the dry grass like savages, they awaited his coming,
and shot him through the brain as he approached. Then they came out of
their concealment and triumphed over the body, crying: "There thou
liest, tyrant! There thou liest!"
So on the prairies of Texas perished La Salle. His name heads the list
of resolute adventurers who pierced the secrets of the wilderness, and
led the march of civilization across the continent. He was a man of
action. When beset, as he often was, by doubts and difficulties, he saw
at once what must be done, and did it without delay. Had his life been
spared he would, no doubt, have rescued the colonists. Without his aid
they perished miserably, Duhaut, the chief murderer, being shot down by
another of the accomplices. Of all the expedition only seven, including
the explorer's brother and his remaining nephew, reached Canada.
GRATITUDE.
I think all little children should
Be thankful in their prayers
To God for having been so good
To make their parents _theirs_.
HOW HARRY SOWERBY EARNED PROMOTION.
BY WILLIAM HEMMINGWAY.
"May I go out to Blairstown on your special, Mr. Gannon?" asked Harry
Sowerby, the telegraph operator at Hammonds.
"What do you want to go for, bub?" replied the superintendent of the
Lexington and Danville Railroad. "It's a nasty night for travelling,
and--"
"I haven't been home in two months," said the boy, eagerly. "I may not
have another chance for a long time, and it's near Christmas. I can
report the departure of your train to 'X' office, and then there's
nothing more to be done here till 6.45 to-morrow morning."
"Come on, then," answered the superintendent. He knew that Harry
Sowerby, the youngest telegraph operator on the road, was anxious to see
his mother and sisters, and he knew what a lonely place Hammonds Station
was.
The sounder clicked rapidly for a few moments as Harry notified the
night train-despatcher at "X" office that the superintendent's special
was passing westward. Then he quickly cut out the telegraph instruments,
quenched the office lamp, and jumped aboard the car as it slowly rolled
past the glare of the bright platform light and out into the black rain.
He could not remember having ever heard such a heavy downpour. The snow
that had hidden the earth for weeks was fast melting under it.
Harry Sowerby was only sixteen years old. He had been at Hammonds one
year, and he was heartily tired of it. The nearest house to the station
was a quarter of a mile away. He was anxious to be promoted to the
train-despatcher's staff at "X" office, that mysterious place whence the
orders came that governed all the trains on the road. But Mr. Gannon had
put him off, telling him that he was too young.
"When you've had more experience, bub," said the big, good-natured
superintendent, "maybe the dispatcher will need you. You're young yet,
you know."
This was a tender point with Harry. He knew he really looked as old as
most fellows of eighteen, and he felt that he had more experience at
railroading than many fellows of twenty-five. Besides, if he were sent
to "X," his pay would be increased to sixty-five dollars a month, and he
could send his sisters to a better school.
Suddenly steam was shut off. Harry knew it by the silence with which the
light train plunged forward, without a sound from the exhaust or the
cylinders. Then came the sharp hissing of the air-brakes, but the train
ran on unchecked. One blast of the whistle called the brakeman to the
platform, where he whirled the brake-wheel swiftly, and set it up as
hard as if his life depended on that one act. A grinding noise forward
and a snarling from the driving-wheels told Harry's experienced ears
that the engineer had "thrown her over and given her sand"--that is, he
had reversed the lever and opened the sand-box, so that the
driving-wheels, now turning backward, might grip the wet rails firmly.
Mr. Gannon, in his hip boots and mackintosh, was out in the snow and mud
and up ahead in less than half a minute. The front of the locomotive was
within thirty feet of the beginning of Williston cut. Tom Jackson had
not stopped her a moment too soon. The heavy rain had washed down tons
of earth and bowlders from the banks on to the track. The cut was
blocked for fully thirty yards. What it was that whispered danger to the
engineer he himself could not tell, but he had felt a sudden premonition
that it was not safe to run through the cut.
Harry Sowerby saw the brakeman go back with a red lantern to protect the
superintendent's special train from No. 576, the way freight that was
due thirty minutes later. Suddenly the light flickered out. The wind and
rain were too much for it. Harry knew that the same thing might happen
just as the heavy freight train came along. It sickened him to think of
what would follow. He thought of the train crew scattered on the snowy
ground, bruised, perhaps killed.
The boy's head throbbed with excitement. If he only could do something
to save the train! He had heard Ryan, the rear brakeman, say that there
was not a danger torpedo on the car. He ran hopelessly up to the
locomotive tender, knowing that there was none there either, but
thinking that perhaps he might find something. And as he searched in the
grimy tool-box he saw a long piece of heavy copper wire. There flashed
across his mind the recollection of how Kline, the lineman, had once
said it was possible for a "good man" to telegraph from any point on the
line. Here was something worth trying.
"Bring a torch, Phil," he said to the fireman. Away he ran down the
track, the coil of wire in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other.
Throwing the coil around his neck and sticking the pliers in his pocket,
Harry began to climb the nearest telegraph pole, while Phil helped him
all he could with his free hand.
The young telegrapher soon threw his leg over the cross-arm, and braced
himself securely. Fireman Phil held the flaring torch as high as he
could, so that the light was only fifteen feet below the wire. The torch
was so liberally soaked with petroleum that the wind could not blow it
out.
Harry felt thankful when he saw, on the opposite end of the cross-arm
from that which held the single telegraph line, a new glass insulator
that had been placed for another line which was soon to be strung. That
made his work easier. Using his pliers dexterously, he quickly spliced
one end of the coil of copper wire around the wire of the telegraph line
about six inches away from the cross-arm. He twined the copper wire
around and around the live wire, so that it clung like a wild-grape vine
tendril to a tree bough.
Then he took three turns of the copper wire around the empty insulator.
Now was the trying moment. If he cut the line, would its sagging weight
break his splice of copper wire? Yet if he was to carry out his plan he
must separate the telegraph line into two parts, so that by bringing the
ends together he could make the Morse signals. With a few nips of the
pliers he cut the telegraph line, and although it fell away with a sharp
snap, the copper-wire splice held it safely hung to the new insulator.
Now he was in possession of a rude but effective telegraph key. By
touching the west end of the broken line, which was the jagged bit of
wire that stuck up from the old insulator, against the east end of the
line, which was the end of the copper wire leading back from the new
insulator, he could complete the electric circuit. He tapped the end of
the copper wire upon the line wire that stuck up. A tiny blue spark
flashed out, and he felt sharp pains in his wet right hand as the
current shot through it. But what mattered the pain? Because the current
shocked him so, he felt sure that the line was "O K." Now he began
tapping again. He let the wires barely touch to make dots, and held them
together an instant to make dashes. He began to call up the station at
Woodside, where No. 576 was due to pass within the next ten minutes.
Then he held the wire ends together to receive an answer. He soon could
feel the stinging, burning current bite the dots and dashes into his
hand like this:
"-- -- -- -- -- ---- ---- ---- -- --."
Now he telegraphed this order:
"Operator, Woodside,--Flag and hold all west-bound trains. Williston cut
blockaded, and a special is stuck at east end."
He signed Mr. Gannon's name to this. Then he held the wires together
while the operator telegraphed back the order, according to the railroad
rules, to show that he understood. The man at Woodside was surprised at
the message, but he quickly understood its importance.
Harry twisted the loose end of the copper wire around the little piece
of wire that stuck up, so that the telegraph line should not be broken,
and then he slid down the pole.
"They're holding all west-bound trains at Woodside!" he shouted to Phil
as his feet touched the ground.
Phil gave him a congratulatory slap on the back that nearly upset him.
Then Phil ran to where the superintendent and the train crew were
standing, two hundred yards back of the train, trying to shield a red
light and keep it burning. He yelled the good news to them, and as
Harry came slowly up to the little group, the crew cheered him and
hugged him and told him he had saved the six lives on No. 576.
"Bub," said Mr. Gannon, as he gravely shook Harry's burned right hand,
"I guess you've had enough experience to go to 'X' office. We need men
as quick-witted and plucky as you in this business. I'm going to report
your conduct to the directors of the road at their next meeting."
HOW MAGIC IS MADE.
I.
When Samuel Butler wrote
"Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat,"
he afforded evidence that he had never been a conjurer.
There is a nervous strain, an excitement, in the act of cheating at
conjuring that is entirely wanting when we are cheated.
For the one who does the tricks there is a fascination that has never
been known to be even alleviated, but, like the proverbial brook, "goes
on forever." Yet, knowing this, I propose to lure my readers to this
incurable habit by teaching them the whole art and mystery of deceiving
one's neighbor--in an honest way.
As an explanation of "palming," whether of coins, balls, or cards, or
any of the preliminary exercises necessary in order to become a
proficient conjurer, makes but dull reading, I shall postpone
instruction in such finger movements until actually needed, and begin
with a complete trick. I shall not content myself, however, with showing
the mere bare bones of the illusions, but will present something more
solid, and give such suggestions, with accompanying _patter_ and other
details, as will enable the student in what the French call "White
Magic," with some practice, to perform the tricks to his own
satisfaction and the delight of his audience.
At the start let me caution my readers against being too quick. The
success of a sleight-of-hand trick depends on diverting the attention of
the audience upon misdirection rather than on rapidity of movement. It
is a fallacy that "the hand is quicker than the eye." The most
accomplished conjurers this country has ever seen, men like Buatier de
Kolta or the late Robert Heller, never made a rapid movement; they were
deliberate. They relied more on a nimble wit, a turn of the head, a
glance of the eye, a motion of the hand, and yet they successfully and
artistically deceived the keenest-eyed witness of their performance.
And now to begin with our first lesson. As an opening for a performance,
something that will impress an audience with your skill, there is
nothing better than
THE EVANESCENT HANDKERCHIEF.
The performer begins by rolling up his sleeves, and showing his hands to
be empty. Yet bringing the latter together the next moment, he produces
a piece of colored silk about twelve inches square, which, in spite of
its diminutive size, he dignifies by the name of _handkerchief_.
"This," he says, holding it out, "is property number One, and here,"
picking up a candle from his table, "is number Two. This candle is
simply the _light_ and airy product of the chandler, and has not been
tampered with by any _wicked_ trickster since it left his hands. And yet
I propose to pass into its very centre this handkerchief."
[Illustration: THE CANDLE.]
A narrow strip of card-board, bent into semicircular form and having a
round hole cut in its centre, serves as a candlestick, and in this the
candle is stood.
"You can readily see," continues the performer, "that there is
absolutely no chance here to gall you--no apparatus of any kind. And now
to begin."
He rolls the handkerchief between his hands, and then extending his
closed right hand, while the left, also closed, goes behind his back,
says: "I shall now cause the handkerchief which is in my right hand to
pass invisibly into that candle. That will be a miracle, and a
prerequisite for a miracle is faith. You must believe that the
handkerchief is in my hand."
"But," whispers a sharp-eyed, keen-witted spectator, "the handkerchief
is not there. He kept it in his left hand, and has thrust it into his
coat-tail pocket."
Ah, suspicious mortal, how grievously mistaken you are! As Josh Billings
has wisely said, "It's better not to know so much than to know so much
that's not so." The performer opens his hand and shows that the
handkerchief is still there.
Again he goes through the same manipulation, and again suspicion is
aroused.
"Ah, ye of little faith!" he exclaims. "There is no need of concealing
my hands for such a simple trick. See! I merely roll the handkerchief,
so, between my hands"--suiting the action to the word--"and on opening
them we find them empty, nothing concealed in them, and nothing up my
sleeves," which he bares in proof. "Where has the handkerchief gone? It
has passed, as I promised it would pass, into the candle."
"Should I cut open the candle," he goes on to say, "and in it find the
missing bit of silk, you would conclude that I use a prepared candle. To
prove this is not so I light the candle, and from its flame I thus
extract the handkerchief." Which he does.
[Illustration: THE FALSE FINGER.]
Pretty and mysterious as this trick is, it is very simple. The
handkerchief which is produced from the empty hands is concealed in a
hollow metal finger, which is painted a flesh-color, and is open at the
lower end, where it is cut in the following shape >. This finger is
placed between the second and third fingers of the left hand, and as the
performer keeps all the fingers close together, and turns his hands
rapidly backward and forward when showing them to be empty, it will be a
keen eye indeed that will detect the apparatus. When the hands are
brought together the false finger is quickly taken off, the handkerchief
is pulled out and shown to the audience. In laying the handkerchief on
the table the finger is placed there with it, or is retained in the hand
and afterward pocketed.
Fastened to the performer's left arm, just below the elbow and under his
coat sleeve, is a strong cord--a piece of fine fish-line is
excellent--which passes up the sleeve, through the armholes of his vest,
across his back, and down the right sleeve, where it ends in a loop
placed over the right thumb. This cord is of such a length that it will
only reach the thumb when the arms are held with the elbows at the hips
and the forearm extended from that point. Releasing the loop from the
thumb, and straightening the arms forward and slightly upward, carries
the loop and anything in it well into the upper part of the sleeve. When
the handkerchief is to disappear, the performer, under cover of his
clasped hands, runs it through the loop, extends his arms quickly, and
the handkerchief flies up the sleeve. Just here comes in a little piece
of the _misdirection_ already alluded to. The performer does not open
his hands at once, but continues to rub them as if they still contained
the handkerchief; then he closes the right hand and holds it well out
from his body, letting the left hand fall, open, to his side. He
continues for a second to work the fingers of the right hand, as though
compressing the handkerchief, and finally, opening one finger after
another, shows the hand empty. Next he bares his arms, but in doing so
is careful to push up the left coat sleeve and turn his shirt sleeve
over it, so as to conceal the place at which the cord is fastened.
[Illustration: THE MATCH-BOX AND THREAD.]
The production of the handkerchief from the candle is as ingenious as
the rest of the trick. A _duplicate_ handkerchief is folded as small as
possible, and tied with very fine black cotton thread, to which is
attached a loop of horse-hair. This is placed in one end of the cover of
an ordinary parlor-match box, one of the kind that slides into its
cover, like a drawer. The box, half-way open, stands on the table, the
loop protruding. In picking it up to take out a match the forefinger of
the left hand is run through the loop, and the act of closing the box
pushes out the handkerchief, which dangles in the palm of the hand, and,
as the back is kept toward the audience, is not seen. _Care must be
taken not to_ PULL _out the handkerchief lest the thread should break_.
To produce it the hands are closed quickly over the flame of the candle,
extinguishing it, a sharp jerk breaks the thread, and the handkerchief
appears as if pulled from the wick.
The metal finger has recently been improved on, but as the substitute
requires more delicate handling, I shall defer the explanation of it for
the present.
This little trick originated with De Kolta, the famous French conjurer,
who, besides being the inventor of most of the tricks, great and small,
exhibited by the other magicians, is an accomplished actor. In his hands
it almost reaches the dignity of a work of art. Another trick of his is
THE MISSION OF A PLATE.
The performer shows a soup plate and two small handkerchiefs, a red one
and a blue, "made of raw silk," he remarks, adding, "Though the silk is
raw, let us hope the trick will be well done."
That there may be no suspicion of a trap in the table, it is covered
with a newspaper. The plate is laid on it, mouth down. With his arms
bare to the elbow, the performer picks up one handkerchief, rolls it in
his hands, and after a moment shows first his right hand empty, then the
left. The second handkerchief is treated in the same way, and on lifting
the plate the handkerchiefs are found under it.
Of course two sets of handkerchiefs are used, one of which is concealed
in the plate by means of a double bottom. The construction of the plate
is quite simple. A hole about one-eighth of an inch in diameter is
drilled in the bottom at the centre. A false bottom is made of
metal--zinc or tin--one side painted white to match the plate, the other
covered with newspaper. Soldered to the centre on the newspaper side is
a short wire, slightly hooked at the end, which passes through the hole
in the plate and just catches the edge. A touch with the finger of this
projecting hook dislodges the bottom. The handkerchiefs cover the wire,
while the newspaper lining, matching the paper on the table, conceals
the false bottom.
[Illustration: CHANGING THE CORD.]
So much for the plate. Now for the disappearance of the handkerchiefs.
For this a small black bag of some soft dull black material is used.
This bag ought not to be more than an inch and three-quarters long by
about the same measurement in width. In the mouth must be sewed a
curtain ring about seven-eighths of an inch in diameter, and extending
from the centre of one side of the bag to the centre of the other should
be a loop of fine flesh-colored sewing-silk, long enough to pass over
the forefinger and thumb when the former is held out from the fingers.
This bag is lying on a table or hanging at the back of a chair, and is
picked up with the first handkerchief. Shaking out this handkerchief,
the performer pretends to gather it into his hands, in reality stuffing
it into the bag by the help of his left forefinger. When completely in,
he runs that finger and the left thumb through the loop, works the bag
to the back of the left hand, and closes that hand. The right hand, of
which the back has been toward the audience, is now turned and shown to
be empty. The fingers of the left hand still keep moving, as if rolling
the handkerchief into still smaller compass, and then that hand is
opened and also shown empty. Almost at the same moment the tips of the
right-hand fingers are laid, for an instant only, near the left palm, as
if to emphasize the fact that the handkerchief has gone, but without
saying a word. This brings the right forefinger about the centre of the
loop, through which it passes. The hands almost immediately separate,
the bag is lifted off and brought against the right palm, in which
position it cannot be seen by the audience. Without calling attention to
it by words, the audience are made to see that the left hand is empty,
as the performer picks up the second handkerchief with it, thus showing
the back and front.
The second handkerchief is now worked into the bag, which this time is
left hanging from the forefinger of the _right_ hand. This hand is
opened, but the audience, though not allowed to see the palm, conclude
it is empty, as it was in the case of the first handkerchief. The left
hand is kept closed, as if containing the handkerchief; then it is given
a sudden upward movement, as if throwing the handkerchief into space,
and opened. "The handkerchiefs are gone," says the performer, "and are
here." At this he touches the hook on the plate with the left
forefinger, disengaging the false bottom, lifts up the plate, and
reveals the duplicate handkerchiefs. These he picks up with his right
hand, thus covering the bag therein concealed.
One who has not seen this trick cannot conceive the beauty of it, but if
the young conjurer will follow literally the instructions here laid
down, he will, with comparatively little practice, soon be able to
surprise and delight his friends with it.
Mr. Adrian Plate, of New York, a most accomplished sleight-of-hand
performer, who confines himself to giving drawing-room entertainments,
has so far improved upon this trick that he dispenses with a prepared
plate. His duplicate handkerchiefs, closely folded, are concealed
beneath his table-top, and are drawn under the plate when lifting it,
ostensibly to show that nothing has been smuggled under it.
There are two other very pretty handkerchief tricks easy of
accomplishment, but I must reserve them for my next paper.
A SWIM FOR LIFE.
"Here is an account, Grandfather," said Ralph, "of a sailor who kept
himself afloat at sea for ten hours with only an oar to cling to. Do you
think such a thing possible?"
"Not only possible, my boy, but very probable," answered the old
captain. "I once knew a sailor who swam for two hours in a heavy sea
when he had not as much as a wooden toothpick to buoy him up, and if you
want the yarn here it is.
"We were on our way from Cape Town to Boston, and when we reached the
parallel of Bermuda we lost a man overboard in the following way: Just
as evening fell, the wind that had been light all day freshened with a
long-drawn-out moaning sound through the rigging, and the captain sang
out to settle away royals and top-gallant sails, and to haul down the
flying-jib. As it was raining heavily we all kept our oil-skins on when
we went aloft. Upon reaching the cross-trees I laid out on the
top-gallant yard, while a seaman named Porter kept on past me, going up
to furl the royal. I had passed the gaskets around the sail and was
about to lay down from aloft, when something large and dark flashed by
me, fetched up against the top-mast rigging, then bounded clear of the
vessel, and fell into the sea. Porter had missed his footing, and was
now plunging down into the ocean's depths as the ship tore rapidly
onward.
"'Man overboard!' I yelled; and, seizing a backstay, I slid down on
deck, repeating my warning in the descent.
"There is no cry that will nerve a seaman to greater exertion than the
one that tells him a shipmate is in dire peril, and although each one
worked fiercely and with the natural strength of two men, the vessel had
swept fully a mile ahead before we could lay the main-yard aback and so
heave the ship to. Nimble hands cast one of the lee boats adrift from
her gripes, and the mate, followed by five seamen, tumbled into her, and
were lowered to the water alongside.
"'I will burn a flare,' called the captain, 'so that you may keep the
ship in sight!'
"Four of the sailors pulled at the long oars with powerful, sweeping
strokes, while the second mate guided the little vessel back into the
blackness of the night, and I stood in the bows peering ahead and
sending a ringing shout of encouragement across the waters every minute
or two. But not one of us expected to see poor Porter again; for
although he was known as a strong swimmer, how long, we reasoned, could
he keep afloat in that breaking sea, weighted down with his clothes--a
suit of oil-skins, and heavy sea-boots? However, we worked as zealously
as though the sight of a shipmate's struggling, drowning, beseeching
face were before us. The ship had been running free when Porter fell
from the yard, so to fetch the place where he had first sunk we had only
to pull dead against wind and sea. The men labored at the oars until
their breath was drawn in choking gasps, and the heavy oak blades were
almost swept from cramped and weakened arms.
"'Cease rowing, and listen!' called the mate.
"The ceaseless washing of the waves was the only sound that reached us.
The ship had continued to drift from us under the influence of the wind
upon her hull and rigging, and although we could still make out the
flare that was burned over her quarter, it had grown so faint with
distance that it now showed only as a blot of fire far away to leeward.
Then we 'darned the water,' as it is called, pulling this way and that,
while all the time I sent powerful cries into the teeth of the gale. At
last we gave up the search, and turned the boat's head around for the
ship. Not a word was spoken, each one of us silently busy with his own
gloomy thoughts, picturing a lost companion sinking down and down
through the unfathomable depths of the sea, to find at last a
resting-place upon the white sand and coral of the ocean's bed. Only the
thump, thump of oars against rowlocks; only the incessant seething of
the curling crests; only the hissing of the rain as it smote the water
about us, and oars rose and fell mechanically as the boat went
staggering down to where the glowworm light showed the ship to be.
"Suddenly a faint, long-away cry trembled out of the darkness.
"''Vast rowing!' shouted the mate, as he jumped excitedly to his feet.
Then he put his hands to his mouth and sent an ear-splitting shout
rolling across the sea. A moment later the answer came to our strained,
eager ears--another cry, but fuller than the first one, as though there
was heart in it.
"'Give way, my lads! bend your backs, my boys,' thundered the mate,
sweeping the boat around with such a fierce pull at the yoke-lines that
she laid down until the top of a comber spilled over the gunwale. Then,
under the frenzied exertions of the men, we went smoking through the
water at right angles to the course we had been making.
"'I see him!' I shouted. 'Cease rowing! Stern all!' And the next moment,
laughing and crying, we dragged our shipmate over the rail. We pulled
_him_ into the boat, but that was all. He was as naked as on the day he
came into the world. After coming to the surface from his plunge he
realized that the weight of his clothes would soon drag him down; so
amid the blackness, and in that jumping, tumbling sea, that broke and
boiled about his head, he kicked off his boots, and one by one got rid
of his garments, catching a long breath and allowing himself to sink
while he pulled and tore his clinging clothes away from him. He told us
that all hope of rescue by his shipmates had been given up, and that he
was trying to keep himself afloat until daylight, in hopes that some
vessel would pass within hail of him, when he heard the sound of oars,
and gave out the cry that the mate had first heard."
THE WINNING OF THE "Y."
BY S. SCOVILLE, JUN.
The day of the Yale-Harvard meeting has come, and with it Jack Vail's
chance of becoming a "'varsity man," and winning the right to wear the
'varsity Y on sweater and jersey front. What that right means none but a
college man can really appreciate. Scores and scores of men spend long
years in training, hoping to win the coveted honor, and out of them all
only a few are chosen. To the 'varsity men more than to all others is
the college honor entrusted. They personify the courage and manliness of
the university, and must show themselves worthy of the trust, and the
man who "makes the 'varsity" by so doing obtains the respect and
consideration of the whole college world, for only one possessing
unusual qualities of mind and body is chosen as worthy to join the few
who represent their alma mater on track and field. And to-day, if Jack
can win his race against Harvard in the annual competition for the great
challenge cup, he wins his Y.
The sun rises in a cloudless sky, and the day gradually grows hotter,
until, by afternoon, the last trace of heaviness has been burned out of
the cinder path, and the tiers of "bleachers" are packed and jammed with
cheering, sweltering college men and groups of equally enthusiastic
college girls. Three of the bleachers are a mass of crimson flags,
dresses, and ribbons--the Harvard "rooters," a loyal band who have come
down from Cambridge to encourage their team. And now the air is
shattered by volleys of cheers from the Yale tiers. Before each section
stand prominent Seniors who in ordinary life bear themselves with a
dignity befitting their high position in the college world, but who are
now devoting every atom of the energy which has made them marked men to
waving their arms and hats as leaders of the cheering, terminating each
effort with a peculiarly enthusiastic bound. A triple "Rah! Rah! Rah!"
from one section is followed from another by the classical
"Brekity-kek-coax-coax"--a cheer adopted from Aristophanes. The cause of
all the commotion is a great blue 'bus, which has just lumbered up to
the training-house, a short distance from the track, with "Varsity"
painted on the side. Out of this are pouring strapping hammer-throwers
and shot-putters, slim distance-runners, wiry jumpers, and all the other
competitors who go to make up an athletic team. And now the crimson
delegation have their innings as the Harvard team file into the
training-house. The Yale men are located on the ground-floor, while
above them in the same house are their rivals.
In the training-house is the faint feverish smell of raw alcohol, and
the sound of resounding slaps as the brawny rubbers massage divers
sinewy legs. The sprinters and quarter-milers, whose events come first,
are slipping into their scanty jeans and lacing up spiked shoes, every
muscle quivering with that deathly nervousness which even veteran
runners feel before a race.
Mike, the grim old trainer, is trotting around with a fixed smile on his
face that he fondly imagines to be reassuring, answering numberless
questions, encouraging this man, advising that, looking up lost
articles--in short, giving backbone to the whole team by his presence.
Suddenly the noise stops. The Captain of the team, a hammer-thrower with
a frame like a young Hercules, has climbed upon the rubbing-table, and
with a sixteen-pound hammer for a gavel, is calling for silence with a
series of crashing blows on the long-suffering table-top.
"Boys, in five minutes we clinch with Harvard. All I've got to say is
that I am proud of every one of you. I had a good eye when I chose this
team, and there isn't a man on it but's full of sand. Keep cool, grit
your teeth, and go in to win, and if we get whipped Harvard'll know
she's been fighting."
Bang! goes the hammer, and the customary last words are over.
"Now, boys, a good big cheer for the Cap'n," shouts Mike, hopping up and
down in his excitement. And a good big cheer it is. Hardly has the last
deep-throated "Rah" died away before the door opens, and a field
official with a flowing badge shouts, "All out for the hundred!" and the
fight between the two great rivals is on.
Jack's race, the mile run, is the next to the last event. To-day is his
first great race, for it was only this season, when he won the mile at
the college spring games, that Mike had recognized him as a runner
worthy to compete against Harvard. And he is not seasoned enough to
endure well the tremendous suspense. Very weak and nervous Mike finds
him as he rushes in from the track to see if all be well.
"Sort of shaky, eh?" the latter growls, looking him over critically.
"Well, I wouldn't give a cent for a man that wasn't. You'll be all right
the minute the pistol goes off. Lay well back until the last ten yards!"
and Mike gives Jack a little shake to emphasize his words, "The last ten
yards, mind, and you'll win. You won't if you don't. Save your strength
for a last jump when you hear me yell. Throw yourself forward just
before you get to the tape. I'll be there to catch you. And oh, my boy,
win this race and the college is yours! Why--"
But all further conversation is cut short by the precipitous entrance of
the Captain. He is all adrip with perspiration, for he has just won the
hammer throw.
"We win the hammer," he shouts, "and the points are a tie. Now
everything depends on the mile. Harvard will take the high jump and the
two hundred and twenty, and we'll get the shot and pole-vault. So it's
the mile that will decide everything. They'll call it the next event,
Jack. Now, boys," and he again climbs upon the table, "I think a little
music will quiet Jack's nerves." And in a voice that shakes the windows
he commences the college slogan: "_Here's to good old Yale--drink it
down! Drink it down!_"
"Every man on his feet and sing!" yells Mike.
Off the beds and from retired corners rolled in blankets they stagger
into the circle, even the quarter and half milers, still deathly sick
from their races, add a few husky notes to the chorus. From above comes
a derisive yell and the rival strains of "Fair Harvard!"
"Last call for the mile," comes through the open door.
"Now, Jack," says the Captain, "we're all looking at you."
"Remember what I told you, Jack!" shouts Mike, and then somebody else
calls for a cheer for Jack Vail. So Jack goes out of the door with their
voices still ringing in his ears. The three Harvard milers are already
out by the start, jogging up and down the track. Jack's appearance is
the signal for a burst of cheers from the Yale bleachers, and a similar
roar from the Harvard adherents.
"Now, boys," remarked Dickie Arnot, Jack's chum, who is leading the
cheering in front of one tier, "save your voices until Jack turns into
the homestretch; then we'll ejaculate a few feeble notes just to let him
know that we're here."
Jack takes a little spin down the stretch to be sure that his legs are
in proper working order, and then trots back to the starting-line, where
the customary ceremony between the runners takes place. Each Harvard man
shakes Jack's hand, and politely expresses great pleasure at the
meeting, and Jack looks each one over, and wonders how fast he can go,
and withal feels a bit lonely and lost--one man against three--without
his running-mate "Shorty" Farnham, who became ill a week before the
games, and had to stop training.
[Illustration: HE CROUCHES IN THE REGULATION SPRINT START.]
"Now-boys-I-shall-tell-you-to-get-set-and-then-fire-you-off.
Any-man-breaking-off-his-mark-before-the-pistol-goes-back-ten-yards,"
clatters the starter, jumbling the words all together, according to the
time-honored custom of starters. Jack is on the extreme edge of the
track furthest from the pole. So when the command "Get set" comes, he
crouches in the regulation sprint start, much to the astonishment of the
Harvard milers, who are standing erect, as mile-runners usually start.
"Bang!" goes the pistol, and Jack springs from his mark as if beginning
a hundred-yard dash. For nearly thirty yards he sprints, and rounds in
ahead of the startled Harvard men, and secures the pole. A roar from the
Yale men attests their appreciation of the neat manoeuvre. But now the
famed team-work of the Harvard men begins. With a tremendous spurt one
of them comes up from the rear, passes Jack, and secures the pole just
ahead, while at the same time another man tries to run up on the outside
and complete the "pocket." But Jack avoids the attempt by suddenly
swerving away from the pole. Immediately the other swerves out too, and
Jack is forced to run yards wide of the pole.
He tries dropping back and trailing the others. But the two drop back
with him, and continue their worrying tactics. How Jack longs for the
faithful "Shorty" to protect him from threatened pockets. As it is now
he must either run on the outside and cover yards more than the others,
or take his chances at being cramped up in a pocket until the last lap.
Neither of these alternatives is to be considered for a moment, for
distance-runners learn by bitter experience that the amount of energy
available for a race is a fixed quantity, and that the runner who
diminishes it by the tiniest extra effort will fail in the stretch. Then
it is that a plan flashes into Jack's head. Two of the Harvard runners
he knows are only second-rate men. The other, plodding along placidly in
the rear while his two pace-makers weaken his rival, is the Harvard
record-holder, the great Cowles, and the only one of three that he need
fear. And no one but a miler of the first rank can stand a fast first
half-mile. So away goes Jack to the front, determined to make the first
half under 2.10, which will drop all but Cowles, and take his chances of
resting enough in the third quarter, undisturbed by any jockeying, to
gain strength for the last sprint. For Jack's strong point is his
sprinting, and a waiting race his best policy. So to the utter
bewilderment of his friends, who know his methods, Jack suddenly dashes
to the front, takes the pole away from the Harvard leader, and is off at
a tremendous pace.
"Poor old Jack's lost his head," remarks Dickie, mournfully. "Mike's
often told him never to set the pace. But, boys, how about a still small
cheer?" And the energetic Richard leads his band of "Assorted Howlers,"
as he has appropriately christened his section of the bleachers, in a
rattling, shattering "Brek-e-kek-kek" cheer that could have been heard
clear to the deserted campus two miles away. Only Mike appreciates the
true inwardness of Jack's action, for he has seen, with many misgivings,
the trained team-work of the crimson-barred runners.
"Good boy! good boy!" he chuckles, slapping his knee ecstatically. "It's
the only thing left to do. Jack runs with his head more than any man
I've got."
One of the Harvard pace-makers essays his old trick, and tries to sprint
up past Jack, but the latter is not to be passed this time, and the
quartet swing past the first quarter-post at a tremendous gait.
"Sixty-one," shouts Mike, who has been holding his watch on the race, so
as to announce the time of the different quarters to Jack.