“The chef, I believe,” said the manager, politely.
“I am,” said Fox.
“You are an amateur conjurer?”
“I amuse myself with legerdemain occasionally.”
“You’re the man I’m looking for. I am the proprietor of a vaudeville company playing at . . . . . . The gentleman who does the magic turn for me has disappeared; gone on a prolonged debauch. . . .”
“Ah, I see,” interrupted Imro, “a devotee of the ‘inexhaustible bottle’ trick.”
“I want you to take his place,” said the manager, “and fill out the week’s engagement. I will arrange matters with the hotel proprietor for you.”
“Donner und Blitzen!” cried Fox. “Why, I never was on a stage before in my life. I’d die with fright. Face an audience? I’d rather face a battery of cannons.”
“Nonsense,” answered the theatrical man. “Do help me like a good fellow. It will be money in your pocket.”
After considerable persuasion, Fox consented. The culinary department was turned over to an assistant. That night Imro appeared on the stage, habited in a hired dress suit that did not fit him like the proverbial “paper on the wall.” With fear and trembling he made his bow, and broke the ice by the following allusion to his very bald pate: “Ladies and gentlemen, why is my head like Heaven? . . . . You give it up! Good! Because there is no parting there!” Amid the shout of laughter occasioned by this conundrum, Fox began his card tricks. In the argot of the stage, he “made good.”