“I will go anywhere where there is a chance I may add to the stock of scientific knowledge,” replied the naturalist. “Lead on, I’ll follow.”
The meal over, the boys and professor had only to follow the crowd in order to reach the public square. A centre space had been roped off, and in the middle of this a small tent was erected.
On the payment of a small sum to some officials, who seemed to be acting as ushers, the travelers managed to get places in the front row. There they stood, surrounded by swarthy Mexican men, women and boys, waiting for the performance to begin.
Suddenly from within the tent sounded some weird music: the shrill scraping of fiddle and the beat of tom-toms. Then a voice was heard chanting. A few seconds later a young man, dressed completely in white, stepped from the tent and sat down, cross-legged, on the ground. A score of flaring torches about him gave light, for it was now night.
He spread a cloth on the ground, sprinkled a few drops of water on it, muttered some words, whisked away the covering, and there was a tiny dwarfed tree, its branches bearing fruit.
“The old Indian mango trick!” exclaimed the professor. “I have seen it done better, many times.”
The next trick was more elaborate. The youth in white clapped his hands and a boy came running from the tent. With him he brought a basket. The youth began to scold the boy, beating him with a stick.
To escape the blows, the boy leaped into the basket. In a trice the youth clapped the cover on. Then drawing a sword at his side, the youth plunged it into the wicker-work several times. From the basket horrible cries came, growing fainter and fainter at each thrust of the weapon.
With a cry of satisfaction the youth finally held his sword aloft. The boys could see that it ran red, as if with blood.