“Be careful where you aim, George,” ses Sam Jones. “P’r’aps he’d better ’ave a chair all by hisself in the middle of the room.”
It was all very well for Sam Jones to talk, but the conjurer wouldn’t sit on a chair by ’imself. He wouldn’t sit on it at all. He seemed to be all legs and arms, and the way ’e struggled it took four or five men to ’old ’im.
“Why don’t you keep still?” ses John Biggs. “George Kettle’ll shoot it in your pocket all right. He’s the best shot in Claybury.”
“Help! Murder!” says the conjurer, struggling. “He’ll kill me. Nobody can do the trick but me.”
“But you say you won’t do it,” ses John Biggs.
“Not now,” ses the conjurer; “I can’t.”
“Well, I’m not going to ’ave my watch lost through want of trying,” ses John Biggs. “Tie ’im to the chair, mates.”
“All right, then,” ses the conjurer, very pale. “Don’t tie me; I’ll sit still all right if you like, but you’d better bring the chair outside in case of accidents. Bring it in the front.”
George Kettle said it was all nonsense, but the conjurer said the trick was always better done in the open air, and at last they gave way and took ’im and the chair outside.
“Now,” ses the conjurer, as ’e sat down, “all of you go and stand near the man woe’s going to shoot. When I say ‘Three,’ fire. Why! there’s the watch on the ground there!”