This, I may add, was the literal truth; for, in order to make assurance doubly sure, I had hit upon the expedient of having two keys made. One of these simply locked and unlocked the box, allowing the lid to be raised. The other one not only locked the box, but it also locked, at the same time, the mechanism actuating the secret panel by which I was enabled to get out of it. If the first key were used it was possible for anybody inside who knew of the existence of the panel, and how it was worked, to escape from the box’s interior. But if the second key were used, the individual inside was as securely imprisoned as he would be if sealed up in a living tomb.
Well, the eventful day came round at last. The town had been well “billed” beforehand, and the hall was packed with curious spectators, all of them eager to see for themselves the wonderful box trick, and try and unravel the mystery of it.
We produced the box, and called up the usual volunteer committee of inspection, while I expatiated at length on our generous and unprecedented offer of “£1,000 in hard cash” to any lady or gentleman who succeeded in escaping from its interior. A good many, I may add, tried. But of course none succeeded. I saw to that.
Following these preliminaries, the box was placed open on a table in the centre of the stage, and a threefold screen on legs was drawn round the back and two sides, leaving the front facing the audience exposed to view, and also allowing of a clear view underneath the table. This was so that I could get inside the box, and be corded up in it, in full view of the spectators, after which a curtain, falling only as low as the top of the table, was to be drawn across the front by my partner, who was to fire a pistol as a signal for me to emerge.
This was literally all he had to do; just draw the curtain tight, shutting the box from view, and then fire his pistol. But he didn’t do it. He fired the pistol all right, it is true, but in his flurry and excitement he forgot to draw the curtain.
As a result I popped up out of the box in full view of the audience, and every man, woman, and child in the building saw at a glance exactly how I did it. I never felt so small in all my life. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up. If there had been a convenient hole anywhere near I would have crawled into it. As it was I sidled off the stage, followed by the jeers and laughter of several thousand people.
My partner was there before me. So was the manager of the hall. He was furious. “Get out of my sight, you two!” he cried, “and don’t let me ever see either of you again.”
We went. What I said to my partner when we got outside would not look well in print. Suffice it to say that my language was neither kind nor complimentary.
Next morning I went round to the theatre to claim my box. The manager was there. To my surprise he was quite civil, even courteous.
“Carlton,” he said, “I’ve been thinking over last night’s business, and I realise that it wasn’t your fault. The box trick, of course, is dead as mutton. We should never dare to show it again. But you can, if you like, stay on and give an ordinary conjuring and card trick turn. I’ll pay you £5 a week. What do you say?”