[to be continued.]
[HOW MAGIC IS MADE.]
BY HENRY HATTON.
V.
About the year 1864 Carl Herrmann introduced at the old Academy of Music, New York, a trick never seen here before, which he called "The Miser." It has since become common, and, under the more prosaic title of "Catching Money in the Air," is exhibited more or less skilfully by many of the present-day conjurers. None, however, has presented it so artistically as the originator, for in his hands it was a very clever bit of melodramatic acting.
Borrowing a hat from the audience, he crept about the dimly lighted stage to the accompaniment of weird music, and with eager eyes and avaricious clutch seemingly plucked from the air half-dollars innumerable, which he deposited in the hat, until he had accumulated twenty-five or thirty.
FIG. 1.
More modern conjurers have tried to improve on Herrmann's method by using apparatus of one kind or another in the trick, but he relied exclusively on his ability to palm a coin.
As it will be necessary for my readers first to master this important element of conjuring, I shall try to teach it before explaining the other details of the trick. To palm a coin, hold it lightly between the tips of the second and third fingers and the thumb of either hand, as shown in Fig. 1. Balancing it on the finger-tips, let the thumb resume its normal position, and at the same moment let the two fingers press the coin into the hollow of the palm. See Fig. 2. Now contract the thumb so that the coin will be held by the ball on one side, and on the other by the opposite fleshy part of the hand, as in Fig. 3. Though at first it may be difficult to press the coin into the exact position, practice will soon make it easy.
FIG. 2.
The beginner is apt to try to have his hand appear perfectly flat when seen from the back; but let him notice the open hand of a friend as it hangs in a normal condition, and he will find that it is slightly arched. Supposing that my reader is now an adept at palming, let us proceed with "The Miser" as Herrmann did it.
When he came on the stage he held twenty-five or thirty coins in his left hand and one coin in his right. As an excuse for keeping the left hand closed it grasped the lower part of the lapel of his coat. In the right hand he carried his wand, or badge of office, a round ebony stick about eighteen inches long, fitted at the ends with ivory ferrules.
FIG. 3.
Approaching some man in the audience, he asked for a high hat, and as it was handed to him he thrust the left hand inside of it, the thumb only remaining outside to grasp the rim. Extending his arms, he struck the left arm with his wand and the closed right hand, asking the nearest person to feel his arms and body so as to assure himself that nothing was concealed there. This examination over, he turned to go back to the stage, throwing his wand ahead of him, and letting the coin in the right hand slip into his sleeve.
Now began his search for the money. As he moved about the stage the audience was allowed to see that the right hand was empty. Suddenly he grasped at the air, and then peering into his hand, he struck his forehead as if in despair at finding nothing. Then as the right hand fell to his side the sleeved half-dollar slipped into it.
Now began the money hunt in earnest. With his right side toward the audience, he again clutched at the air, and this time, letting the coin drop to his finger-tips, showed it. Then he tossed it visibly, so that all might see it, into the hat, where it was heard to fall. The next moment, as if with the instinct of the miser, he took it out again and pressed it to his lips, and once more threw it into the hat. This time, however, he only apparently did so, for as the hand went inside the hat he palmed the coin, and let drop one of the coins from the left hand instead.
Round and round the stage he went, catching the coin, palming it, and apparently adding it to the store in the hat, which was each time supplied from the left hand.
When only four or five coins were left in the hand, he actually threw the coin which he "caught" into the hat, turned the empty hand toward the audience—without speaking, however, for the whole trick was carried out in pantomime—and then placing it inside the hat, as if to hold it, took the remaining coins from the left hand. Withdrawing that hand, he turned it, palm outward, toward the audience, and then took the hat with it again, this time keeping the fingers outside. In the mean time he had palmed the four or five remaining coins, for it is as easy for the practised conjurer to palm six as one. These coins he proceeded to "catch," one at a time—which requires considerable practice—and threw each visibly into the hat. This last move set at rest any suspicions which might exist that he had been using one coin throughout the trick.
During the course of the trick, Herrmann at times pretended to pass the coin through the bottom or side of the hat. To do this he merely showed the coin, which he palmed as his hand approached the hat, and let the tips of his fingers touch the plush, as if pushing the coin through. At the same time he dropped a coin from the left hand, and the chink as it came in contact with the others heightened the illusion.
Herrmann played to very large audiences, and this trick proved so popular that Robert Heller decided to reproduce it; but he varied it as follows: Besides the lot of half-dollars in his left hand, he had six or eight in his right. Making a grab at the air, he thus "caught" a number of coins, which he appeared to throw into the hat. In fact, he merely closed his hand over the captured coins without any palming, and let six or eight drop from his left hand. Of course his stock was soon exhausted; but when that happened he threw the coins from his right hand bodily into the hat. Then for the next two or three times when he grabbed at the air he kept the right hand closed, and putting the empty hand over the hat, shook up the coins already in, thus giving the impression that he had thrown a number of coins in. Finally he went among his audience, and taking a heaping handful of coins out of the hat, poured them back, retaining six or seven in his hand. These latter he then shook from a lady's handkerchief or her muff, or pretended to take them from the long whiskers of some man.
FIG. 4.
Two or three years later Hartz did the trick, and as he could not palm a coin, he used a flat tin tube which held about six coins. This tube hung by a hook inside the right breast of his vest; the lower end just reached the bottom of the vest. By putting the tips of the fingers under the vest and pressing a lever, a coin dropped into the hand, and the performer was thus enabled, from time to time, to show a half-dollar and throw it into the hat. The other times he merely pretended to catch a coin, and put his closed empty hand over the mouth of the hat, and "made believe," as the children say, to drop the money in.
Another mechanical arrangement that is used by some performers is strapped just above the wrist, inside the sleeve, and is so constructed that by extending the arm suddenly a coin is shot out by means of a spring to about the tips of the fingers, and the performer really catches it. Still another coin-holder is used, but the pump-handle movement necessary to release the coins is inartistic. There is one little wrinkle, however, in connection with this trick which is worth describing and worth using. It is a coin with a tiny hole drilled through it near its edge. A human hair or a bit of fine sewing silk is run through this hole and formed into a loop. In this way the coin is hung from the thumb. When the performer wishes to "catch" it, a slight jerk brings it to the front of the hand, where he seizes it; and as he puts it into the hat he lets it swing to the back of the hand, which can then be shown empty.
FIG. 5.
A very good trick, somewhat akin to palming, is done with five half-dollars. In palming proper, a new coin with a sharp, milled edge is the best to use, as the milling helps to hold it in place, but for this trick well-worn pieces of money which have become quite smooth are necessary.
FIG. 6.
Begin by rolling up the sleeves so that the arms are bared. Hold the left-hand extended, palm upwards, and on the tip of each finger and thumb balance a coin. Place the right hand on top of the left, so that the money is held between the tips of the fingers of the two hands. Now turn the hands until the back of the right hand is towards the audience, as in Fig. 4. Fix your eyes on the ceiling, as if that had something to do with the trick; move the hands rapidly upward and downward twice, and while doing so bring the tips of the fingers together, causing the coins to lap one over another. Then surround them, as it were, with the tips of the left hand fingers and thumb, and quickly slide them down into the right palm, where they are to be held by pressing on them with the tip of the left thumb; finally, at almost the same moment make a third upward move, keeping the hands together and the eyes fixed above; the hands will appear to be empty and the coins to have vanished. Figs. 5 and 6 show the fronts and backs of the hands. During the applause which always follows this trick, quietly withdraw your thumb, close the right hand over the money, and put it noiselessly away, either in your pocket or other receptacle.
The mere learning of a move like palming is hardly interesting unless it avails for some trick. As "The Miser" is not suitable for all occasions, here is a little trick which will answer to show my amateur friend's proficiency:
Place two half-dollar's on a table. Pick up one with the right hand, palm it, and pretend to place it in the left hand. To do this naturally let the tips of the right-hand fingers touch the left hand, and at the same time close that hand and draw the other away. To the general spectator it will appear as if the coin really remained in the left hand. Turn the left wrist, so that the back of the hand will be toward your audience.
Now pick up the second coin with the tips of the right-hand fingers and thumb, cry, "Pass!" Clink the two coins together, and it will seem as if the left-hand coin had at that moment passed to the right.
Besides the method of palming described, which may be called the orthodox, there are several other methods, one of which I will briefly describe.
FIG. 7.
FIG. 8.
With the palm upward, hold the coin between the thumb and second finger of the left hand, the tip of the forefinger touching it from below, as in Fig. 7. Let the right thumb go under and the other fingers over it, as if taking it. If at the same time you withdraw the right forefinger and release the grasp of the thumb and second finger, the coin will fall into the left palm, as in Fig. 8. Close the right hand and hold it aloft, letting the left hand drop to the side or rest on the hip. The effect is exactly as if the coin had been taken away by the right hand.
The coin may be made to appear as if taken from the leg by merely dropping it to the tips of the left-hand fingers, which must then be laid on the spot it is desired to have it appear.
If, instead of a coin, a small ball is used, a very laughable effect may be produced by appearing to swallow it. To do this show the ball, throw it into the air once or twice, and at last palm it. Place the gathered-up tips of the fingers and thumb to the lips, and at that moment thrust the tongue into the left cheek, which will give it the appearance of having the ball there. Point to the cheek with the right forefinger; then let the right hand drop to the side, holding the ball palmed. To reproduce it lift the lower front of the vest with the left hand, and thrusting the right hand under, let the ball find its way to the finger-tips; leave it under the vest a second, and then withdraw it slowly.
[THE HIDDEN TREASURE OF KING OBANI.]
BY RICHARD BARRY.
This is the story of an American boy in far-off Africa. He was sixteen years of age—very near seventeen, in fact—at the time of this tale; but he had led such a strange life and had been in so many places that he had probably seen more of the world than many grown men who consider themselves great travellers.
The boy's name did not have an American sound; it was Malcolm McFee, and that is Scotch, as any one can tell at half a glance, and the only reason he was an American was because he happened to be born in the United States, on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada.
In his early youth Malcolm's father had been a sailor, and after that a soldier of the Queen in India, where, after serving bravely, and being wounded in one of the campaigns against the mountain tribes, he had taken it into his head to leave before his time was up, and start on the peculiar crusade which filled the next thirty years or so of his life, and which, at the end of that time found him in the far-away diamond and gold country of the dark continent.
One day Malcolm McFee was sitting in front of the little sheet-iron house in which he and his father lived off in the interior of one of the British Colonies in South Africa, when he saw the latter coming rapidly towards him with his arms swinging. Mr. McFee was a small wiry man, all thews and sinews. He had never abused himself in any way, and he could strike a trot and hold it open-mouthed all day like a dog. He was loping along through the dust, and Malcolm saw that he was evidently laboring under some excitement. Now his father was never despondent or cast down, but he was sometimes more enthusiastic than at others, that was all, and never had the boy seen his father so wrought up as at this very moment. He entered the house and closed the door behind him. Then, not even breathing hard from his running, he put both hands on Malcolm's shoulders, and exclaimed, "Laddie, laddie, but we are going to strike it rich!"
Now Malcolm had heard this before, so he waited for further developments. But the strange tale that was told him succeeded at last in arousing even his calmer nature.
A year previously the British government had conducted a campaign way to the northwest of the South African Dutch republic. They had humbled the little black native King and made him pay tribute, but the loot and treasure that they expected to find (for he had been reputed to be wealthy) were not forth-coming. This is the key to this story, and there is no use of going into the details of the conversation between Malcolm and his father. It is what they did that is interesting—and what took place afterwards.
That night an Englishman named Gifford, a tall, gaunt, fanatical-looking being, entered their hut. He was accompanied by a gray-headed, wizened negro, whose ribs and joints showed plainly beneath his shrivelled, dusty skin. A rather remarkable council was held—the Englishman translating as the negro talked.
"He says he knows exactly the place," Gifford said. "He saw them burying it, and after they had walked away from the spot old Obani had every one of the men who digged for him killed—heads chopped off, you know. That's the reason Tommy Atkins didn't find anything up there, eh? Listen, man! We can get it—gold and sparklers! old Grumpah here says—handfuls of them. Are you game, man, to try it? I tell you frankly why I come to you," Gifford continued. "I know you can be trusted, and we will need some money for the outfit. I say, old Juggins, come, are you with me?"
"How did you get such a hold over the old boy?" asked Mr. McFee, nodding towards the squatting black figure.
"That's a short story," answered the Englishman, laughing. "I have had my eye on him for a long time. He let something slip once, and I tell you, man, I worked with my hands to keep that old nig in idleness—for three years I've worked for him. I arranged it so that he thinks I saved his life, too; and that was easy. And now the point—will you join me?"
This question was superfluous, as any one who had known Malcolm's father would have testified.
Three weeks later two large ox-carts, with four blacks to drive them, and three white men—at least two white men and a boy—were treaking across the flat plains, equipped apparently for a hunting excursion into the game-abounding country where beasts with strange horns and names are found in plenty, and where the lion's roar often breaks the stillness of the night.
Privation and hardship, death and disease they faced, and at last, a month later, with only one wagon left, and the loss of one of the negro drivers (by drowning at a river ford) they arrived at the great fertile border-land that edges the deep forest of the outermost possessions of King Obani, chief of the Bangwalis. Here they rested for a week, regaining strength, for they had made the trip in the unhealthy season of the year. They had traded their way peaceably, so far, with what natives they had met, and had encountered no hostile resistance. But the hardest work was yet to come.
Leaving the cattle in charge of one of the natives in a little hidden valley, the four men and Malcolm entered the shadows of the forest. For ten days they struggled on, cutting their way slowly through the massive undergrowth. Each one was laden down with a heavy pack, pickaxes, and long-handled shovels, not forgetting a few coils of rope, and iron bolts which came in handy afterwards. Besides, the three white men (I can speak of Malcolm as a man) carried rifles and well-filled cartridge-boxes.
On the tenth day old Grumpah, who was leading, stopped and made a strange clucking sound, the sound that the African used universally to attract attention. He pointed with his long bony arm. Half hidden by the vines and weeds lay a white rain-washed skeleton, and only a few feet away lay another. They counted thirty of them in all. It was here that the sharers of King Obani's secret had been put past the revealing of it. Grumpah was talking excitedly now, using long words, but Malcolm had picked up a little of the language, and he caught the gist of it even before Gifford turned and spoke.
"Old 'Grumpah' says it is only five miles further on," he whispered.
For some time they had been following quite a distinct path, and now it was better going. In a little over an hour, Gifford, who had forged ahead, uttered a shout that startled some great billed birds squawking out of the tree-tops.
"By George," the Englishman exclaimed, "the old fellow has not lied! Here is the place."
It was evident that a clearing had been made, and at the foot of a great white-trunked tree a mound could be seen covered and grown with underbrush, but hanging from the branch of a tall bush was a strange object. It was an ordinary gin bottle with a label blown into the glass, and on another branch hung a dinner-bell with the clapper removed. Gifford struck the bell with the point of his rifle—it tinkled musically in the silence, and he said, "Come in," jocosely. Mr. McFee's eyes, however, were shining like coals; he removed his coat and laid about him with an axe, cutting away the shrubbery and clearing up the ground. Evidently the mound had been made by hands—no mistaking that.
"Ask him how deep it is," Mr. McFee said, eagerly, driving the point of a pickaxe into the earth.
"The depth of four men!" returned Gifford—"less than thirty feet. How long will it take us?"
McFee looked about him.
"Four days at the most," he said, "if it is easy digging. But now let us go at it right and dig it well fashion. We must make a windlass."
Even before dark—and it grows dark very suddenly in the African forest—a rough winch had been constructed from the trunk of a tree; with the aid of the iron bolts it was strongly held together, and handles were placed on each end, so they could be worked the way a bucket is lowered and raised in a mine shaft. By noon the next day all this was completed and the digging fairly commenced. When they had gone down some ten feet or more, and it became difficult to throw up the spadefuls of the black rich earth, the windlass was placed in position, a basket constructed with the aid of twigs and vines, and the two negroes were set to work hauling the earth to the surface as the white men below filled the improvised carrier. Malcolm's back ached from the constant bending and lifting, but his father labored as might a fireman in a burning house, and Gifford, stripped to the waist and dripping with perspiration like a stoker, delved with the strength of two men. Twenty feet, twenty-five feet, thirty feet were reached, and the only encouraging thing about it was that there were signs that the earth had been disturbed before them.
At noon of the third day they had all gone to the surface except Sandy McFee, when the latter gave utterance to a shout from the shaft,
"Here's something," he called; "look out!"
A shining object thrown from his hand sailed up from out the shaft. It was another gin bottle. (Alas! the mark of on-sweeping civilization.)
It struck against the handle of the windlass and shivered into a hundred sparkling bits. One of them fell at Malcolm's feet.
"Look out, McFee, you idiot!" cried Gifford, springing up. "You came near braining us."
"I have struck a layer of tree trunks," came the answer from below. "The treasure must be underneath."
But Malcolm was sitting there gazing at something that he held between his thumb and forefinger.
"What's the matter, lad?" asked Gifford, turning.
Malcolm handed the shining thing up to him.
"Diamonds!" exclaimed the older man, with a gasp; "the bottle was filled with 'em!"
Most of its contents had fallen back into the shaft. Gifford slipped the stone into his mouth and made a spring for the rope. He slid down it sailor fashion, and one of the blacks followed him. Malcolm hastened to the edge. There they were, on their hands and knees, searching the loose earth, beneath which showed clearly the heavy beams that protected the rest of King Obani's treasure.
They were picking things up, objects to right and left, as children do scattered sugar-plums.
Malcolm had about made up his mind to go down also, when suddenly he heard a weird call off in the woods. It reminded him of the "coo-ee" of the Australian bushmen. It was evidently the sound of a human voice. Another answered it. The black man who had staid on the surface with old Grumpah and himself gave a startled look around, and without a word put off into the woods.
"Some one is coming," shouted Malcolm down the shaft.
Again the call was heard. This time those below heard it also.
"Hurry up! get us out!" shouted Gifford. "It's the Bangwalis. I know the cry."
Hurriedly he emptied the earth out of the basket, and, with Mr. McFee, stepped inside, holding fast to the rope. Malcolm took one handle and Grumpah the other. Slowly they turned the windlass that was supporting more than its usual weight. They had raised it perhaps ten feet or so when there was a sharp crack, and old Grumpah gave a groan. The handle on his side had broken. The old man, who had been straining forward with all his strength, slipped his footing and plunged headlong into the pit.
The weight now was more than Malcolm's arms could stand, and do his best he could not help the windlass slipping from his grasp. Down went the basket.
"Are you hurt?" he shouted.
"Steady, Mal, my boy," came his father's voice in reply. "Keep cool. Now try again. One at a time!"
Malcolm put forth all the might of his strong young back, and slowly the bucket came to the surface, this time with his father alone.
"The old nig broke his neck," were the first words he said. "Come, get the others out."
McFEE AND MALCOLM GRASPED THE WINCH HANDLE.
At this moment, nearer than before, sounded the strange cry. McFee grasped the winch handle with his son, and they had wound Gifford nearly to the top, when Malcolm heard a noise and looked up. Not thirty feet away, parting the bushes, stood a strange figure. Over the top of a long shield peered an excited black face, and behind it another. The gleam of a broad spear-head and the tossing of a headdress farther back showed that there were more to come.
So paralyzed were the natives by astonishment at what they saw that they stood there for a moment like ebony statues. McFee saw his opportunity.
"Pull hard, boy," he said. "This affair has gone past treating;" and he stooped quickly and picked up the Martini rifle from the ground. The shot rang out at once, and the nearest two figures lunged forward, for the ball had passed through both of them.
Gifford was now swarming up the rope faster than Malcolm could raise the bucket. A wild cry rang through the woods, but dismayed by the death of the foremost two, the rest of the Bangwalis had taken to their heels.
"Get your guns," cried Gifford. "We must make for the high ground down the path."
The black man down at the bottom of the pit set up a piteous howl.
"We can't leave him," cried Malcolm, letting the bucket go by the run.
The negro seized the rope and came up it like a monkey, leaving the body of poor old Grumpah where he fell. All four now struck off through the woods to the northward. The cries and the pounding of a tomtom were heard from the south, and then a wild scream, as it was evident the blacks had determined on a charge across the open.
"They'll be on us in about five minutes," panted Gifford, looking back over his shoulder. "What in the world are we to do? We must leave the path."
They crushed their way through the thickets a dozen yards or so, each man fighting as if the leaves would drown him, when Malcolm pointed with his finger. There, towering straight up to the sky, was the trunk of a huge tree. At the roots was a small opening, large enough to all appearances for a man to squeeze his way in. No sooner had he seen it than the black darted toward it on hands and knees like a rabbit, and before the others could tell what he was going to do, nothing but his heels were to be seen. Gifford turned and reached up overhead. With the stroke of his knife he clipped off the top of one of the overhanging bushes.
"In with you!" he cried—"in with you! That tree trunk is nothing but a chimney. It will hold us all."
Malcolm and his father and lastly the lanky Englishman crawled into the damp-smelling interior, and Gifford pulled the ends of the branch in after him, so that the spreading leaves would hide the opening. Now the cries sounded all about. On the path not forty feet away a crowd of natives went by on the rush, the ornaments on their knees jingling as they ran. Crouching in the crowded space the fugitives waited breathlessly. They heard more cries, and once some one had passed through the bushes so close to them that they could hear the swishing of the leaves. It had grown so dark that perhaps their footprints could not be seen; their hiding-place was not discovered.
Now a consultation was held.
"I wish old Grumpah was here," said Clifford. "He knows the country."
The black whose teeth were chattering was mumbling something.
"What's that?" asked Gifford, turning to him.
"Ribber not far off," the man replied.
Gifford spoke to him in his own language, and then he addressed the others in a whisper.
"This boy was a slave to the Bangwalis," he said. "He tells me there is a stream to the northward. We might make it and find a canoe at the banks. It's our only chance for life."
"Will we have to leave the treasure behind?" asked Mr. McFee, hoarsely.
"Confound the treasure!" responded Gifford. "It may be the death of us yet. We have enough white stones to make us rich."
It was midnight, judging as well as they could, when they crawled from their hiding-place, and there was nothing for it but to take the path again and go cautiously, as it was impossible in the darkness to travel through the forest. But after following the path for half an hour it lightened suddenly, and they perceived that it was only the thick foliage that had kept the moonlight from reaching them. A few rods further on they went, and a broad stream lay spread before them. On the opposite shore lights could be seen, and the sound of wailing voices and the beating of drums proclaimed the fact that some negro rite was there in progress. The black man pointed with his finger, and Gifford held up his hand as an order to halt.
"King Obani, he home," said the negro boy, nodding across the river. "Three year ago English too 'm. No find gold."
"I know where I am now," whispered Gifford, excitedly. "This river is the Mmymbi; that is Obani's chief town. Willoughby and the rangers took it three years ago, and were fooled in getting the loot, don't you remember. Eh? the idiots!"
"Well, what are we to do?" asked Mr. McFee.
"Thirty-five miles below is an English trading-station," Gifford said, eagerly. "We must get a boat of some kind."
Tho black had waded knee-deep into the stream. He bent over with his face close to the water, and then struck out silently.
"Come back here, you black rascal," hissed Gifford, raising his rifle.
But the boy's reply caused him to lower it.
"He says there's a boat tied to the branches of yonder tree," he murmured.
Now by bending over all could see it plainly. The negro slid over the side, and soon came back paddling it silently along the shore; the others crawled in, and now, keeping well in the deep shadow of the trees, they drifted down the stream; the cries and lights of the Bangwali village grew fainter and fainter in the distance. When around the bend of the river Gifford picked up a paddle, and they struck out at full speed. Three hours' paddling and they were beyond King Obani's jurisdiction, and by daylight they saw the clearing of the English trader.
For some reason they chose not to tell their story, and the next morning as they sat at breakfast a canoe shot down the stream. Some natives landed.
"Hullo, here's news," said the trader's clerk as he approached the house after meeting the native boat. "King Obani is dead."
"Then the mystery of his treasure dies with him," said the trader, for the story was well known.
"Humph," observed Gifford, lighting his pipe.
"Mal, my boy, we'll return for the rest of it some day," whispered Mr. McFee.
But he never did. Adventure seemed to be killed within him, and he and Malcolm composed the firm McFee & Son, general merchants, at K——. And here is where the story comes from.