The old fellow dropped into his seat, still sneezing and gasping.
Frank made a flourish with the sword, and out in the audience a nervous woman uttered a little cry. The bright blade glittered and flashed through the air, the keen edge struck the potato, and it seemed that it must cleave potato and sever Monsieur Mazarin's head from his body. But the potato simply dropped to the floor in two pieces, and the assistant straightened up, smiling and unscathed.
Some of the spectators clapped their hands. A voice cried "Fake!"
Frank simply laughed.
"In this world," he said, placidly, "fifty per cent. of the things we see are fakes. In modern magic about one hundred per cent. is a fake. That's what makes it interesting. Explain the fakes—if you can."
This was said so good-naturedly that Frank won the sympathy of the audience.
Indeed, the potato-cutting trick was a fake. A needle had been inserted crosswise in each potato, near one side. When the time came to do the trick, Frank sliced off the portion of the potato near the needle, pretending to do it so the potato would lay perfectly level. Then he struck with sufficient force to divide the potato, but when the edge of the sword struck the needle, which lay crosswise to the sword, the keen weapon could go no further, and the potato fell apart.
It was a very simple little trick, but it looked like a rather remarkable feat.
"Ker-chew!" sneezed the old farmer in the front row. "That's purty good, but that air Zolverein could knock the spots offen that, an' he never made no bluffs abaout turnin' sneezin' inter money."
"Nor do I make any bluffs, sir," said Frank, pleasantly. "If you will come up here onto the stage, I'll show you how to make your cold pay you well."