CHAPTER XII.
WHEREIN MR. MOLE IS CRUELLY USED—THE GARDEN FETE—SUNDAY AND
MONDAY GIVE AN ENTERTAINMENT—ANOTHER LOOK INTO THE MAGIC
MIRROR—STUDIES OF NATURAL HISTORY—AN INVOLUNTARY PERFORMER.
When Isaac Mole had time to reflect coolly upon what had occurred, doubts arose in his mind.
In spite of the seemingly inexplicable nature of the phenomena which he had witnessed, he felt that Harkaway, father or son, must know something of it.
Dick Harvey, he was morally sure, was in it.
If any thing fell, Harkaway would start up, on which Harvey or young Jack would immediately inquire anxiously if he were startled, solely for the purpose of leading up to Mole's words at the wizard's house.
"Startled—nervous! Never; iron nerves, sir—adamant!"
Upon these occasions, Mr. Mole would glide away from Harkaway's room without a word, leaving his tormentors to have their grin out all to themselves.
All they could do they could not make him drop a word of allusion to the events just narrated.
On that topic he was utterly dumb. Day and night the worthy Isaac Mole brooded over one solitary topic.
Revenge.
"I'll teach 'em," he said; "I'll let them know what it is to play practical jokes with a man like me."
The last straw breaks the camel's back. The last indignity on his wig proved too much for Isaac Mole, for he had until that fatal day at the magician's, been fondly hugging himself in the delusion that the secret was all his own.
The talk was tortured and twisted about so as to make it bear upon the sorest subject for the poor old gentleman.
"Dash my wig, Mr. Mole!" Harvey would say; "let's take a short country excursion. You know the advantages of change of hair."
If a suggestion were wanting for the dinner of the day, a voice was ready to advocate "jugged hare."
"That's very well," said Harkaway, "but where can you get one in these parts?"
"That's it," chimed in Harvey; "as Mrs. Glasse says, first catch your hair, eh, Mr. Mole?"
Mole winced.
"It's not always easy to catch it, is it, Mr. Mole?" said Harry Girdwood, slyly.
"Not if it flies too high," said young Jack.
This chaff goaded poor old Mole to fury, coming as it did from the boys.
"Really," he said, with a lofty sneer, "I don't see what you have to laugh at in the idle nonsense of these children."
This made them grin more than ever.
"The wit of the rising generation," sneered Mole.
"Mr. Mole would like the young generation never to rise, I think," said Harry Girdwood.
"That's it," laughed Harkaway; "Mr. Mole was always so conservative in his ideas."
"Let me see, dad," said young Jack, looking puzzled; "Conservative, why, that means a Tory."
"Yes."
"But, Mr. Mole, I thought that you always were a Whig."
Such a storm of laughter greeted this sally, that Mr. Mole could not stand up against it.
Looking daggers at every body, he trudged out of the room, digging his walking stick fiercely as he went.
Now at the door, who should he meet but Sunday, grinning from ear to ear?
"I'm not going to be fooled by you, you infernal black pudding," cried Mole, exasperated beyond measure.
"Yah, yah," grinned the mirthful Caesar Augustus, holding his sides.
"Take that," cried Mole.
Sunday did take it.
It was not a pleasant dose, for "that," in this instance, meant a severe crack across the head with old Mole's walking stick.
Sunday rubbed his poll.
Happily the thick wool with which it was garnished saved the skull from much danger, and a nigger's head is proverbially tough.
But yet Sunday did not relish the indignity.
"You dam wooden-legged ole tief," he shouted out; "I'll gib it to yar for dis hyar."
And so, full of revengeful thoughts, the darkey sought his friend Monday.
And they set to work plotting, with what result the next day showed—much to the old gentleman's disgust.
* * * * *
They mustered a good round dinner-party upon the following day.
In front of the summer house was an object which excited Mr. Mole's curiosity considerably.
One of the ladies asked what it was there for.
"I don't know exactly what it is," replied Harkaway; "something of Monday's, I think, Dick."
"I believe so," replied Harvey, carelessly.
"They are going to give us an entertainment of some kind," said young Jack.
The cloth having been cleared, Monday came forward, and bowing gravely, addressed the company.
"Ladies and gentlemen—"
"Hear, hear!" from Mole, who, thinking himself free from attack, determined to try a bit of chaff upon his own account.
"Thank you, sar," said Monday, bowing gracefully to Mole.
"Ladies and gentlemen—"
"Bravo, bravo!" shouted Mole; "exceedingly bravo."
"Folks generally—sane and insane"—here he bowed in a very marked manner at Mr. Mole.
"Hear, hear!" cried Dick.
"My entertainment is just a-gwine to begin, and as it is of a scientific natur dat asks for all your attention, I must ax them to go at once who don't wish to stay and see it all through, so as not to interrupt me."
"No one wishes to go."
The most eager person to remain was Mr. Mole.
Poor old Mole.
Monday went on—
"The first that I'se gwine to show you, ladies and gentlemen, is some speciminks of what is known as the occult art, that is, the black art, or magic."
Mole winced.
"Go on."
"Hear, hear!" said Dick.
"Bravo, Monday," from Jack Harkaway.
Mole was silent.
He had not another "bravo" in him, so to speak.
Monday bowed in acknowledgment of the plaudits.
"In the first place, den, ladies and gentlemen," he went on to say, "I mean to show you my magic mirror."
Mole glanced nervously at Dick, and from him to Jack Harkaway.
But both looked as stolid as Dutchmen.
Monday drew back the curtain from the easel, disclosing a frame, on which was fitted a plain black board.
"In this frame," said the professor of the black art, "I can show you any persons you may ask for, dat is, persons who are known to you."
Mr. Mole had heard enough to convince him that he was in danger of being once more sacrificed to the insatiable passion of his two old pupils for chaffing and practical joking.
"Well, sar," said Monday, "just you try um."
"We will," said Dick.
"Well, then, sar, who shall be the first person I must bring before you?"
No reply.
"Well, Mr. Mole, name somebody," said Monday, in his most insinuating manner.
Mole's only reply was a dissenting growl.
"No."
"Will you, Mr. Harkaway, sar?" he said.
"Well, I will if you like—suppose that we call upon your friend, Sunday?"
"Very good, sar."
And then he set to work.
A walking stick served him as a wand, and this he waved three times slowly and majestically, while he repeated in solemn tones this singular legend—
"Hokus-pokus, popalorum,
Stickstun, stickstun, cockalorum jig."
Thereupon the curtain went back, and lo! Sunday appeared sitting upon a throne of state, robed in a long crimson mantle, which made him look like an emperor.
It was a most dignified tableau, or it would have been, but for the long clay pipe the darkey held in his mouth and the pewter pot he carried in his hand.
"Ladies and gemmen," said Monday, "dat is our ole friend, dressed as de Empyroar Charleymane."
"Bravo, bravo!"
Even Mr. Mole laughed.
The curtain closed over this dignified and historical representation.
"Now," said Dick Harvey, "let us see some of our live Stock."
"Yes, yes," said young Jack; "show us Nero."
"And Mike."
Monday bowed.
Then back went the curtain, and there sat Nero, the monkey, on the throne just vacated by the emperor "Charleymane," and at his feet stood the bold poodle Mike wagging his tail.
Nero appeared to understand what was required of him, and he sat motionless as a statue for a while, but before long the peculiar nervous irritation to which monkeys appear to be subject attacked him, and he began a series of spasmodic researches in natural history all over his ribs.
"Nero's making up for lost time," said young Jack; "look how he is getting to work."
Nero was indeed scratching away furiously.
"There's diligence," laughed young Jack; "now he's busy."
And then he broke off into the following appropriate snatch—
"He'll catch the flee—he'll catch the flee—
He'll catch the fleeting hour."
Down went the curtain.
There was a general laugh at this.
"When we asked you to show us the live stock," said Dick Harvey, "you took us too literally, Monday."
"Yah, yah!"
"You must learn to draw the line somewhere."
Monday here rapped the ground with his wand to secure attention.
Silence having been gained, he addressed them thus—
"Before we leave dis part of de entertainment," he said, "I conclude de exhibition of one more animal. For reasons dat I need not mention, I shall leave you to guess at de name of dis animal. It is a small animal dat lives on wums."
"Wums?"
"Yes."
"What are they?"
"On wums, scriggley wums and insects, and burrows in the earth."
"Why, dear me," said young Jack, innocently, "that must be a mole."
Before a word could be said, back went the curtain, and Nero was discovered walking upon a pair of wooden stilts.
He staggered about like a man in liquor, and made everyone yell again at the quaint manner in which he had hit off Mr. Mole's movements.
"Whatever has he got on his head?" said someone.
Mole shivered.
He guessed.
Guessed; alas, he was but too sure.
Nero put all his doubts at rest by making a graceful bow and removing his wig instead of a hat.
The wig!
Yea; the identical wig which Mr. Mole had left behind him in his precipitate flight from the conjuror's.
This was too much.
Losing his dignity completely, Mr. Mole jumped up and burst through the group of spectators, dashing out of the place in a perfect fury, young Jack's voice ringing in his ears as he shouted—
"A wig! a wig! My kingdom for a wig!"