The rabbit has not been suddenly created, full-grown, in the crown of his immaculate silk hat. It owes its mild behavior to constant discipline, its sleek coat to cabbage leaves. Like Topsy—like all other bipeds, quadrupeds and aquatic creatures—it has simply “growed.” Its cage is behind the stage, to which it will presently be spirited away, to rest in peace after its labors.
When we discover this we become very wide-awake, very “cute.” We will see through the next trick or perish in the attempt. Alas! alas! for our righteous determination; once again we are deluded and snared. The table performs a giddy reel, the watch of the confiding benign bald-headed gentleman in the corner is shattered before our eyes, and with a thrill of horror we strain our necks to gaze in his direction in order to witness the anticipated apoplectic seizure.
The gentleman, however, remains stolidly non-committal. My young schoolboy eyes observe a whitening of the gills, a compression of the lower jaw that bodes ill for the entertainer if he does not make good the loss; and a few minutes after he is bidden of the smiling performer to look in his pocket, and, lo and behold! the monogrammed watch, which we are ready to swear we saw him pass to the platform, dangles safely from the end of the chain spanning his stomach. The shattered timepiece, we are told glibly, was only a base imitation in tin and glass.
But how, where, in what manner? queries my boyish soul, steeped in perplexity; and, by-and-by, the monster answers all these questions as if he read that inner inquisitive voice so satisfactorily that I go home and try the trick before an admiring circle of friends, borrowing my maiden aunt’s watch for the purpose, she being quite unaware that I have its threepenny duplicate in my pocket.
Sure of Success
I am sure of success. I imitate the performer’s patronizing complacency perfectly. I smile and sneer politely with all his evil suavity, and then I fire my pistol, shatter the glass of the threepenny, and my aunt rises from her chair with a piercing shriek.
“Tom, you little wretch, what have you done?”
With an airy smile I bid her be calm, and from the rear part of my person produce with a deft movement her precious belonging.
“Your watch, madam,” I say, with all the superior pleasantry of the “bunkum” performer.
Then the smile freezes on my face, the timepiece feels strangely light in my clammy hand. I gaze at it in horror. My eyeballs distend, my heart swings backwards and forwards between my ribs. I have bungled! The good watch is shattered beyond hope of redemption. The disc of paper and glass cowers up at me, its hands stretched confusedly across its impudent face.