CHAPTER XXXI.—THE CONJURER.
Mr Beecham returned.
‘The young people are crowding in now; and Mrs Joy and the schoolmistress with some of their friends are trying to place them comfortably, so that the smallest may have the front benches. Come along and help them.’
The long narrow hall was already well filled, the faces of the children shining with the combined effect of recent scrubbing and excitement. Some of the youngest faces wore a half-frightened expression, for the only magician they knew about was the wicked one in the story of Aladdin, and they did not know what the magician they were to see to-night might do to them. But others had seen this conjurer performing on the village green in open daylight on fair-days, and were able to reassure the timid ones, whilst regaling them in loud whispers with exaggerated accounts of the wonderful things he had done.
In the background were parents, on whose heavy and usually expressionless faces a degree of curiosity was indicated by open mouths and eyes staring at the still unoccupied platform on which the performance was to take place. Along the side, near the front, was a row of chairs occupied by Mrs Joy and her friends, who were presently joined by Mr Beecham and Wrentham, and later by Dr Joy. One of Mr Beecham’s ideas was not to overawe the children by the presence of too many of the ‘gentry;’ consequently, he only invited those who were to help him in making his young guests comfortable.
The whispering ceased suddenly on the appearance of the conjurer.
Wrentham leaned carelessly back on his chair, so that Mrs Joy’s bonnet hid his face from Mr Tuppit.
The latter looked quite smart in his well-brushed black frock-coat, his white collar, his lavender-coloured tie, secured in a large brass ring with a glass diamond in the centre, which glistened in the lamp-light and at once attracted the children’s eyes. The professor of wonders had a long solemn face, and black hair brushed close to his head, where it stuck as if pasted on with oil. His voice had a pleasant ring, and he began by merrily informing his audience that he intended to explain to them how all his tricks were done. Every boy and girl who watched him attentively would be able—with a little practice, of course—to do everything he did. This was delightful information, and secured immediate attention. But it was a little dashed by the intimation that they would first have to learn how to spell the mystic word ‘Abracadabra.’ However, he would teach them how to do that too; and he pinned on the wall a scroll bearing the word in large red letters. This was a clever dodge to divert too quick eyes from his sleight of hand.
Then, chattering all the time, he began his tricks. Pennies were transformed into half-crowns and back to the poorer metal, much to the regret of the grinning yokels—one of them denounced it as ‘a mortal shame;’ handkerchiefs were torn into shreds and returned to their owners neatly folded and uninjured; a pigeon was placed under a cap, and when the cap was lifted there was a glass of water in its stead; cards seemed to obey the conjurer like living things—and so on through the usual range of legerdemain.
The great feat of the evening was the last. Mr Tuppit advancing with a polite bow—an excessively polite bow—begged Mr Wrentham to be so good as to trust him for a few minutes with his hat, which should be returned uninjured. Wrentham stared at the man, as if privately confounding his impudence, and complied with the request. Another polite bow and a smile, and the conjurer returned to his rostrum. The glossy hat was placed on the table: flour, water, raisins, and all the ingredients for a plum-pudding were poured into it amidst the laughter and excited exclamations of the youngsters, who could scarcely retain their seats. The whole was stirred with the magic rod, then covered with a cloth, and when that was removed, there arose a column of steam as from a caldron. A waiter brought a huge plate, and the conjurer tumbled out on it a piping hot plum-pudding from the hat. The wonder was not over yet. The pudding was quickly cut into hunks, and two waiters were employed to serve it to the astounded audience. But how that pudding came to suffice for the supply of all those young folk and their parents was a mystery which only the conjurer, Mr Beecham, and the hotel cook could properly explain.
The hat was restored to its owner in perfect condition. Wrentham said ‘Thank you,’ and again stared at the man, who again bowed politely, and retired after saying good-night to the children, whose cheers were not stifled even by mouthfuls of plum-pudding.
‘There is another of my sources of happiness,’ said Mr Beecham as Wrentham was going away; ‘doing something to make others happy.’
Wrentham had not gained the particular information he had been seeking as to Beecham’s antecedents, but he had learned several things.
‘Bob is becoming troublesome. I must arrange with him either to sail in the same boat or not to run foul of me in this way.’
His report to Mr Hadleigh was brief and decisive. ‘I can make nothing of Beecham except that he is a harmless, good-natured chap, who likes to spend his money in standing treat to all the youngsters in the parish. There is no sham about his philanthropy either: never a bit of fuss. Take last night, for instance. Nobody knew anything about it barring those who were invited. I can’t make him out; but Miss Heathcote may be able to help you. He corresponds with her.’
‘Corresponds with her?’
‘Yes; I saw a letter addressed to her on his desk. They seem to be great chums, too, as I hear—and he is not too old to be a lover.’
‘That is curious,’ said Mr Hadleigh thoughtfully, but not heeding the jest with which Wrentham concluded his remarks.