The next trick is of a slightly different style. Cut two pieces of card like those represented in the diagram and place them in the position represented; the problem is, with a small stick or lead-pencil, to raise them from the table, without of course touching them with your fingers. You may try this as often as you like. If you succeed, well and good; if you do not, you can come back here and refer to the solution.
Here is a picture (No. 2) representing the way in which it is done; need we add anything in the way of explanation? We think not—so we won't do it.
CHAPTER XXII.
Nix has a sister married to a wealthy leather merchant, whose place of business is in that odoriferous part of New York city called The Swamp. She is very beautiful, so we call her the Swamp Angel, and her husband's counting-house, Araby the Blest. Her children we have christened Findings, the youngest being always spoken of as the last. We have numerous jokes, of course, about the cobbler sticking to his last, the best quality of calf, and so on. She is very good-natured, and enjoys our badinage heartily, having a healthy vein of fun of her own, which transmutes all the little events of domestic life into the most refined humor. We like humor in a woman, or we should rather say in a gentlewoman; her culture and the natural tact peculiar to her sex, seem to eliminate any of those grosser particles which the coarse sensibilities of a man would not detect. Humor is as fascinating in a woman as sarcasm is abominable; it requires the very highest breeding to make the latter quality moderately safe in the hands of young women. For our own part, we would rather see a woman chew tobacco than hear her say sharp things. However, this is a digression. Mrs. Crofton, as we said, is very fond of fun, and in her house there is that perfect ease and abandon which can only be enjoyed by well-bred people; whoever visits there is at home; and a favored few, of whom the writer has the honor of being one, are treated quite as enfants de famille.
If, on calling, we find the heads of the house from home, we know where the claret and cigars are kept. Cicero, the negro waiter, obeying standing orders, promptly serves up some repast, and presses the hospitality of the house upon us with all the aplomb and grace for which his race are remarkable.
We drop into breakfast whenever we feel so disposed, and invite ourselves to dinner or tea as freely as though our friends kept a hotel; indeed we jocularly call their mansion by various public names: "The Crofton House," "Fifth Avenue Hotel," "The Shoe and Leather House," etc., etc. We have perpetrated more sheer, downright nonsense in their saloons than any forty strait-laced country school-children ever condescended to commit in their rural play-ground.