Chapter Four.
The New Recruit.
For a few moments the picture was at its best, actors and spectator looking as rigid as if carved in wood or stone.
Then all was over, the doctor dropping the stick and scrambling up; Frank putting the tongs into the fender, Sam stooping to pick up the letter from the carpet, and the professor tearing his fez off his head, to dash it on the floor.
“Hang it!” he cried angrily; “destroyed the illusion! There, it’s all over, Frank. I can’t see it now.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Letter, sir,” said Sam stiffly, and he was as rigid as a drill sergeant, and his face like wood in its absence of all expression, as he stared hard over the waiter at his master, whose fingers trembled and cheeks coloured a little as he took the missive.
“Ahem!” said the doctor uneasily, and Sam, who was about to wheel about and leave the room, stood fast. “A—er—er—a little experiment, Samuel,” he continued.
“Yes, sir,” said the man quietly.