Some years ago a noted conjurer introduced a feature into his entertainment which, for a time, startled the public. He allowed himself to be handcuffed by any policeman present who would fetch a pair of Government handcuffs for the purpose; these were locked, and the key retained by the constable or some other member of the audience. The performer then stepped behind a curtain, and presently came out, still manacled, but minus his coat. But after a bit it suddenly occurred to some one that all the Scotland Yard handcuffs issued to the police were made on the same pattern, and that the magician had only to unlock them with a duplicate key kept in a little pocket at the back of his waistcoat!
Now for the ‘Mysterious Addition,’ or ‘Spirit-writing.’ Six small pieces of cardboard or paper are distributed, and those to whom they are given are requested to pencil some number consisting of any figures they please. Let these people be separated as much as possible, ostensibly to show that there is no collusion, but really to prevent any comparing of notes; enjoin strict secrecy, too, as to the numbers written, for similar reasons. Let somebody collect the folded slips in one of those small envelopes such as are used for ‘Your change, with thanks,’ in shops, fasten it, and bring it to you. You go back to your table and lay it carelessly thereon, bringing forward your piece of ribbon instead, as though to save time; and while the first knot is being tied you ask, Who is the best arithmetician in the room? This being decided, you go back and get the envelope before the second wrist is tied, giving it to him with a pencil and plate, and bidding him, when he has added the six numbers together, to say nothing, but make a private memorandum of the amount, burn the slips on the plate, and keep the ashes for you.
In laying the little envelope ‘carelessly’ on the table, where you have your ribbon, candle, matches, plates, rope, sealing-wax, etc., in readiness, you are careless or careful enough to place it so that it shall be hidden by the rim of the plate, side by side with another little envelope of precisely similar appearance, also concealed by the margin of the plate. This second envelope contains six slips of paper or card, too, and on these you have written—in pencil, and in different ‘hands’—six numbers, the total of which is known to you. Let us suppose that you have put 209, 23, 1000, 7, 51, and 346; the sum of these is 1636, and is discovered to be such by the arithmetician—who, of course, is not chosen from among the six, ‘to prevent any deception,’ but is wholly independent of them—when you hand him this second envelope instead of the genuine one. Behind the screen, therefore, you have only to write 1636 on the slate or tambourine, which will be found to tally with his memorandum. Or, if you are doing this trick by itself, paint 1636 on your arm in glycerine with a fine brush, and let it dry in before commencing. This being transparent, will be quite invisible till the ashes are rubbed in, when the number will stand out jet black. You can vary this in a dozen ways, by writing the number and concealing it somewhere beforehand, since the amounts which the audience put down on their slips do not affect you at all. In every case it is well to have the slips burnt, and you can ask to have the numbers restricted within the hundreds—that is, in three figures—on the plea that it will otherwise be tedious to add up. Make your own amounts rather larger than those given above by way of example.
Of course no comparisons are made, or, even if any two or three did compare, no one can dispute the accuracy of the total, for no one knows what the numbers were beyond his or her own figures; and the addition is beyond suspicion when made by a representative whom the audience choose for themselves. But, you will ask, how is the first envelope concealed when you take up the plate to receive the ashes? Simply by having two plates, as though to provide against contingencies, and giving the upper one, using the other to stand the candlestick upon if you like, and pushing it back a few inches casually to cover what was behind it.
If you prefer it, you may take out your handkerchief and draw it lightly over your arm after it is bared while the slips are being collected; then throw it casually on the table beside the plate to serve as a mask; or you may have a few spare handkerchiefs ready on the table and dispense with the plate as a means of concealment altogether. You will draw attention to the fact that you have handkerchiefs wherewith you may be secured if nobody will lend them, but that of course you prefer to use borrowed ones. Conjuring tables with traps and shelves are utterly unnecessary for small articles which cannot be seen by those seated a little way off if the smallest projection intervenes.
Always have everything ready and in its place before commencing. If you have to leave the room for anything in the middle of a trick your audience suspect something, and the effect is spoiled. Make a list: candle in candlestick, matches, sealing-wax, ribbon, scissors (for cutting the knots at the conclusion), rope, strap, chair, tablecloth or newspaper, screen, bell, umbrella, slate, tambourine, lazy-tongs, pencil, small envelope, slips, plates, duplicate envelope. The last need give you no anxiety, you can have it in your match-box, if you please, and coolly put it in the desired position while standing with your back to the people, ‘setting’ your table before commencing.
Talking of ‘spirit-writing’ reminds me of an anecdote—a problem put before me the other day by a post-office boy which might well have perplexed the cleverest of conjurers. I was sending a paper which I had just written to the Editor of the Boy’s Own Paper, but was uncertain about the amount of postage, so I stepped into the office to have it weighed and get stamps. Manuscript for the press goes at book-post rate if the ends are left open, and ‘Manuscript’ is marked on the wrapper.
‘Printed matter?’ asked the youthful and conscientious official (evidently a new hand) to whom I handed the document, as he prepared to put it in the scales.
‘No; manuscript,’ I replied. ‘But it’s all the same; book-post tariff covers it.’
The boy was obviously not quite satisfied on this point, for, having weighed the packet, he referred to a big book, doubtfully. ‘Twopence-halfpenny,’ he presently decided; ‘it will go for twopence-halfpenny, provided there’s no writing inside!’