A SUCCESSFUL REHEARSAL.

Ifthere was one man in college whom the rajah thoroughly and heartily detested, it was the captain of the boat club. He had many faults; he was very tall and powerful, and delighted in contrasting the English physique with that of inferior races; by which he meant, among others, the rajah’s race. His manner was abrupt and overbearing, his laugh loud and unmusical. In fact, he grated horribly on the rajah; and it was merely the final straw when, in the exhilaration of a bump supper,—full, as the rajah remarked in disgust, of cow andstrong drink,—he called that prince, in playful chaff, a “nigger.” The rajah swore melodiously in Hindustani, and I saw that he meant to be revenged.

In those days the entertainment of the Nebraska Loadstone created afurore. Everybody went to see her, and everybody came away convinced that she possessed marvelous powers. Her peculiar gift—but everybody remembers the details of the performance, and how the tricks were finally, one by one, exposed, so that her adherents and believers were driven from one position to another, until at last they had to fall back on one single performance out of all those that the Loadstone gave, and maintain that on that occasion at least something unexplained and inexplicable did really happen. It is with the events of that particularevening that I am concerned. I think I can throw some light on them.

At first, however, there were many believers and few skeptics. The dean carefully pointed out that Plato nowhere denied the existence of odic force; and the bursar, who was generally supposed to be little better than an atheist, declared that Spencer in one passage impliedly asserted it; even the warden, in his sermon, told us that it was better, according to Bacon, to believe two errors than refuse one truth—which was, to say the least of it, sitting on the fence. But none of these authorities shook the robust skepticism of the captain of the boat club. He knew a conjurer, and the conjurer had told him how it was done, and he was going to expose the Loadstone.

“But why haven’t you?” I urged. “She’s been here a week.”

“He will not be too hard on her at first,” said the rajah, with a little sneer.

“I’ll bust her up this very night,” said Waterer. “I would have done it before, only I was gated.”

The excuse was good, and Waterer departed, full of boastings and self-confidence, to gather together a large number of the noisy men, and make a pleasant party to “guy” the unhappy Loadstone. I stayed to smoke a pipe with the rajah.

“Of course she’s a fraud,” said he; “and I believe that animal really has got hold of the right explanation.”

“I shall go and see it,” I announced.

After a moment’s silent smoking,the rajah looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “So shall I—if niggers are admitted.”

After hall, he and I set out together for the town hall. We found the first two rows of stalls occupied by Waterer and his friends. They were all in evening dress, and had obviously dined—not in hall. The rajah and I seated ourselves just behind them. The room was full, and the feats were being most successful; each was followed by general applause, broken only by some gibes from our friends in front. These latter grew so pronounced that the Loadstone’s manager at last came forward and pointedly invited one of the scoffers to submit himself to experiment.

Now was Waterer’s chance. He rose in the majesty of his bulk, walked on to the platform, andsaid in a loud voice, as he settled himself on a chair, “If the lady can move me one foot from this chair, I’ll give her a pony!”

The Loadstone advanced and began to paw him about in her usual fashion. Waterer, who was sober enough to have lost nothing but his shyness, was apparently too many for her. He was immovable; and cries of, “Now then! when are you going to begin?” and so on, became audible. Two or three minutes passed, and the Loadstone turned with a gesture of despair toward her manager.

“I can’t——” she began.

I jumped to my feet, crying, “Wait a minute! Look!”

For even as she spoke, there was what is scientifically called a solution of continuity between Waterer and his chair. Still ina sitting posture, but sitting on nothing, he was at least two inches from the wicker-work of the chair. I glanced from him to the rajah. That extraordinary man was in deep, placid, profound slumber. I jogged his elbow and pinched his arm; he showed no consciousness whatever. I looked at the Loadstone. She was standing motionless on the stage about a yard from Waterer, with one hand outstretched toward him, and her eyes fixed on his ascending figure; for Waterer was gradually, slowly, steadily mounting in his strange journey. He was now a foot from his chair, still in a sitting position—and up, up, up he was going. The wretch was white as a sheet, and gasping with fright and bewilderment. Thunders of applause burst from the audience. It was again and again renewed;but the Loadstone did not, as her custom was, bow and smile in response. She still stood motionless, and Waterer still ascended.

At last, at a height of fully twenty feet from the stage, he stopped. Simultaneously the Loadstone gave a loud shriek as she fell back into the arms of the manager—and the rajah awoke.

“I beg your pardon,” he said politely; “I was drowsy. Anything going on?”

“No; he’s stopped now,” I answered, my eyes eagerly fixed on Waterer.

The rajah rose from his seat with a yawn. “There’ll be nothing more to-night,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“Go home, man!—with that before our eyes!”

The rajah shrugged his shoulders.

“She won’t do anything more,” he repeated. “Look at her; she’s quite done up.”

And, indeed, the Loadstone looked half dead as she gazed fearfully up at Waterer. Her demeanor was not that of a triumphant performer.

“Do sit down,” I urged; “we must see the end of it.”

With a weary sigh, the rajah sat down, saying, “I’m not sure you will, you know.”

While we talked, the audience grew impatient. However wonderful a feat may be, the public likes to have things kept moving. They thought Waterer had been in the air long enough, and there were cries of “That’ll do! Let him down!” “Give us another.”

The manager held a hasty conference with the Loadstone: he seemed to urge her; but sheshook her head again and again, and would do nothing but lie back in a chair, and pass her hand to and fro over her head. The rajah looked at her with a slight smile. The clamor increased. I think a sort of panic—an angry panic—seized the audience.

“Bring him down! Bring him down!” they cried, pointing to the pallid Waterer, who sat as rigid as a trussed fowl.

After another despairing appeal to the Loadstone, the manager came forward and made a lame speech. The Loadstone was exhausted with her unparalleled exertions. She must rest; presently she would bring him down. Then Waterer’s friends arose and ascended the platform. They walked about, they stood on one another’s shoulders; they made it clear that no cords held Waterer.A pair of steps was called for and brought. Placed on a sturdy table, they just enabled a man to reach Waterer’s feet. One mounted amidst intense excitement. Turning to the rajah, I exclaimed, “Look!”

He was asleep again; and the Loadstone stood stiffly upright, beckoning toward Waterer. Slowly and gradually he descended, leaving the man on the ladder grasping at empty air, till he sat again on his seat. The applause burst out, and the Loadstone sank back in a faint on the floor. The rajah awoke, and the manager dropped the curtain, hiding the Loadstone, Waterer, and his friends from our view.

“Give me your arm,” said the rajah; “I am tired.” I escorted him to a cab, and we drove home.

The Loadstone gave no performancethe next evening: she was too fatigued; and Waterer was absent from the boat and from the sight of men two days. When he reappeared he made no reference to his friend the conjurer. He slunk about the Quad, looking very pale and upset. I met him once, when I was with the rajah, on our way to lecture. The rajah smiled urbanely at Waterer, and said to me, when he had passed:

“It’s such a rude thing to call a gentleman a nigger, isn’t it?”

Waterer has not done it again. And the Loadstone never did that trick again. She took the pony, though. The manager called on Waterer, and asked for a check. I think that incident pleased the rajah most of all.

“It is a ready utilization of the unexpected,” he remarked, “which does our friend much credit.”

Mr. Aloysius Tappenham, of Stamford Road, was a dealer in frauds. It must not be understood from this statement that he was either a company-promoter or the manager of a philanthropic undertaking. On the contrary, he was as honest a man of business as you would find in London, and he earned his living by discovering and introducing new attractions in the shape of “Wonders,” “Phenomenons,” and so forth. The music-halls were Mr. Tappenham’s best customers, and when he successfully launched a new impostor, he reaped a handsomereturn in the way of commissions on the salary of the impostor and the profits of theentrepreneur. All hisprotégéswere a success—a fact chiefly to be attributed to his unvarying habit of insisting that he himself should be shown “how it was done.” He promised and observed absolute secrecy; but, as he always said, he could not properly judge of the merit of any particular fraud, unless he were allowed a private view of the machinery by which it was worked. Some few years ago, in the very prime of life and the full tide of a profitable trade, Mr. Tappenham suddenly retired from business. This was the reason:

One day Mr. Tappenham discovered a treasure in the shape of a very attractive young lady whose name was Hopkins, but who proposed to call herself Mlle. Claire.Claire was hardly suitable to the music-halls; Mr. Tappenham thought that she was above that, and proposed to “run” her himself in Bond Street, on half-profit terms. Her specialty was the production of any spirit you liked to order. She received in a dimly lighted room; you told her who you were, and whose spirit you wished to interview, and forthwith, without any nonsense of hand-holding or table-turning, she caused to appear a shadowy yet clearly perceptible figure which was exactly like the person you named, spoke with that person’s voice, and exhibited full—or reasonably full—knowledge of everything which that person, and that person only, might be expected to know.

Mr. Tappenham was much struck with the dexterity of thisperformance. Of course, when explained, it resolved itself into some clever optical illusion, a little ventriloquism, and a good deal of tact in returning to the inquirer in another form information pumped out of him beforehand. The materials were simple, the result was highly artistic; and Mr. Tappenham determined to furnish the only thing needful to set London aflame with the new marvel—namely, capital. However, before taking the last irreparable step, he decided on a final trial. He prepared themise-en-scènewith due completeness, and invited Mlle. Claire to experiment on himself.

“Consider me as one of the public,” he said, “and give me a hair-raiser.”

Mlle. Claire protested that he was too much behind the scenes; but, on being pressed, she consentedto try, and asked Mr. Tappenham to name his spirit.

He thought for a moment, and then said, “When I was a young man, I knew a girl called Nellie Davies—a pretty girl, my dear. I dare say I didn’t treat her over well; but that’s neither here nor there. Let’s have her.”

Clever little Mlle. Claire asked a question or two—and Mr. Tappenham admired the neat and apparently undesigned nature of her questions—and then set to work, after drawing the curtains a shade closer, and turning the light a trifle lower.

Mr. Tappenham sat comfortably in an armchair, his hands crossed over his white waistcoat, and a smile of satisfaction on his face. Presently the shadowy shape began to form itself a yard or two from Mr. Tappenham.

“Capital, capital!” he chuckled. “That’ll fetch ’em.” The shape grew more definite.

“Will that do?” asked Mlle. Claire triumphantly. “Is it like?”

“Now, by Jove, it is rather! Make it speak.”

Mlle. Claire laughed, and, projecting her voice to the shape, began in low, sweet, sad tones. “You summoned me. What do you desire of your dead friend?”

She stopped, laughing again, and said, “It’s no use, when you’re up to it beforehand.”

Mr. Tappenham did not answer her. He sat looking at the shape, and seemed to be listening intently.

“Shall I go on?” she inquired.

Mr. Tappenham took no notice.

“What’s the matter with him?” thought Mlle. Claire. “I shan’t go on if he’s not listening.”

Assuming her pretended voice again, she said, “I will try to forgive. Farewell, farewell!” and, with a merry, boisterous laugh, she displaced the arrangement which produced the illusion, and said to Mr. Tappenham:

“Now are you satisfied?” Then she added, in a tone of surprise, “Whatever is the matter?” For, as she looked, the expression of his face changed from attention to surprise, from surprise to uneasiness. He turned to her and said, with a forced smile, “It’s too clever—a sight too clever. That’ll do; stop it, please.”

“Stop it?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough. It’s—it’s damned absurd, but it’s getting on my nerves. Stop it, I say—stop it!” His voice rose at the end almost into a cry.

“Why, I have stopped it thisthree minutes!” she answered in surprise.

His eyes had wandered from her to where the shape had been; but at her last words he turned to her again with a start. “What? No, no! No nonsense! Come, now, be a good girl and stop it. I’ve had enough.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Mlle. Claire impatiently. “It’s all over.”

“I won’t be made a fool of,” said he angrily. “Stop it, or not a farthing do you get from me.”

“Heaven bless the man, he’s mad!” exclaimed the lady, who began to be a little uncomfortable herself. It is an eerie thing to see a man looking hard at—nothing, and listening intently to—nothing.

Suddenly he jumped up and ran toward Mlle. Claire. He seized her by the arm, and cried,“Stop, you little devil, stop! Do you want to madden me? I never did it, I never did. At least, I never meant it—so help me, God, I never meant it.”

“Mr. Tappenham, you’re dreaming. There’s nothing there. I’m saying nothing.”

“She’s coming! she’s coming!” he cried. “Take her away! take her away!”

Mlle. Claire looked at his face. Then she too gave a shriek of fright, and, hiding her face in her hands, sank on the floor, sobbing. She saw nothing. But what was that face looking at?

As for Mr. Tappenham, he fled into the corner of the room. And when Mlle. Claire recovered herself enough to draw back the curtains, and let in the blessed sun, he lay on the floor like a man dead.

Mlle. Claire was a good girl. She had a mother and two little brothers to keep: so she stuck to the business; but she never liked it very much after that day. Mr. Tappenham could afford to retire, and he did retire. He lives very quietly, and gives large sums in charity. Mlle. Claire knows all the tricks that ever were invented; she is a thorough-going little skeptic, and believes in nothing that she does not see, and in very little of what she does. Therefore she merely exemplifies feminine illogicality when she thinks to herself, as she cannot help thinking now and then:

“I wonder what he did to Nellie Davies!”

She told me about it, and I believed her when she said that she was not playing a trick on Mr. Tappenham. But perhaps shewas deceiving me also; if so, that is an explanation.

I repeated the story to a scientific man. He said that it furnished an interesting instance of the permanence of an optical impression after the removal of the external excitant. That is another explanation.

Or it may have been the working of conscience: that is an explanation in a way, though an improbable one, because, in spite of many opportunities, Mr. Tappenham’s conscience had never given him any inconvenience before. It has since.

THE END.

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JOHN INGERFIELD.(4th Edition.)

A love tragedy of old London, and four short tales. ByJerome K. Jerome. Illustrated.

“A very sweet and pathetic love story ... true to the best there is in human nature ... many diverse traits of character and striking incidents being compressed within its narrow limits.”—New York Times.

HENRY HOLT & CO., New York.

TEN BRINK’S FIVE LECTURES ON SHAKESPEARE.

Translated byJulia Franklin. 12mo, gilt top, $1.25.

A HISTORY OF THE NOVEL.

Previous to the Seventeenth Century. ByF. M. Warren, Professor in Adelbert College. 12mo, gilt top, $1.75.

KALIDASA’S SHAKUNTALA, OR THE RECOVERED RING.

Translated by Prof.A. H. Edgrenof the University of Nebraska. (Library of Foreign Poetry.) 12mo, gilt top, $1.50.

HEINE’S LIFE TOLD IN HIS OWN WORDS.

Edited byKarpeles. Translated byArthur Dexter. With portrait. 12mo, $1.75.

“On every page there is an illustration, worth reproduction, of the wit, the sentiment, and the romantic charm which flowed without an effort from the author’s brain.”—New York Tribune.

THE DAYS OF LAMB AND COLERIDGE.

An Historical Romance. ByAlice E. Lord. 12mo, $1.25.

“The relations of the two principal characters are traced from their schooldays to their death.... The pathos and tenderness of Lamb’s life with his sister are well brought out, and the pages are brightened with touches of the humor and brilliant repartee characteristic of the great essayist.”—Critic.

HEYSE’S THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.

An intense romance of German life that has become a classic. 12mo, $1.25.

HENRY HOLT & CO., New York.

A very good novel.—The Nation.

Mr. Ford’s able political novel.—New York Times.

HON. PETER STIRLING,

And what People thought of Him.

By PAUL LEICESTER FORD.

12mo. $1.50.

The Nationfurther says he throws “floods of light on theraison d’être, origin, and methods of the dark figure that directs the destinies of our cities.... So strongly imagined and logically drawn that it satisfies the demand for the appearance of truth in art.... Telling scenes and incidents and descriptions of political organization, all of which are literal transcripts of life and fact—not dry irrelevancies thrown in by way of imparting information, but lively detail, needful for a clear understanding of Stirling’s progress from the humble chairmanship of a primary to the dictator’s throne.... In the use of dramatic possibilities, Mr. Ford is discreet and natural, and, without giving Stirling a heroic pose, manages to win for him very hearty sympathy and belief. Stirling’s private and domestic story is well knit with that of his public adventures.”

The Literary Worldsays: “Of the mismanagement and villainy practiced in the wards, of bossism, obstructions to reform, wranglings and riots, we have had more or less in fiction, but nothing like this.... Pages which read like actual history.... A fine, tender love story.... A very unusual, but, let us believe, a possible, character.... Peter Stirling is a man’s hero.... Very readable and enjoyable.”

The Boston Advertisersays: “The book is sure to excite attention and win popularity.”

HENRY HOLT & CO., New York.

By JEROME K. JEROME.

AUTHOR’S EDITION.

JOHN INGERFIELD.Three Serious and Two Humorous Stories. Ill’d. 16mo, buckram, 75 cts.NOVEL NOTES.Stories Tragic and Comic. 140 Illustrations. 12mo, $1.25.THREE MEN IN A BOAT.Illustrations by H. Frederics. 12mo, cloth, $1.25; paper, 40 cents.IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW.12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 35 cents.STAGE-LAND.Curious Habits and Customs of its Inhabitants. Illustrated by J. Bernard Partridge. 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 30 cents.TOLD AFTER SUPPER.With 96 Illustrations by K. M. Sheaping. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 30 cents.DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE.[And Six Essays]. With upward of 100 Illustrations by G. G. Fraser. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 40 cents.ON THE STAGE—AND OFF.The Brief Career of a Would-be Actor. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25 cents.

JOHN INGERFIELD.Three Serious and Two Humorous Stories. Ill’d. 16mo, buckram, 75 cts.

NOVEL NOTES.Stories Tragic and Comic. 140 Illustrations. 12mo, $1.25.

THREE MEN IN A BOAT.Illustrations by H. Frederics. 12mo, cloth, $1.25; paper, 40 cents.

IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW.12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 35 cents.

STAGE-LAND.Curious Habits and Customs of its Inhabitants. Illustrated by J. Bernard Partridge. 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 30 cents.

TOLD AFTER SUPPER.With 96 Illustrations by K. M. Sheaping. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 30 cents.

DIARY OF A PILGRIMAGE.[And Six Essays]. With upward of 100 Illustrations by G. G. Fraser. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 40 cents.

ON THE STAGE—AND OFF.The Brief Career of a Would-be Actor. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 25 cents.

HENRY HOLT & CO.,Publishers,New York.

Transcriber’s NoteErrors in punctuation have been silently corrected. Also the following corrections have been made, on page11 “hesitatation” changed to “hesitation” (very little hesitation in assuming that)14 “my my” changed to “my” (that my opponent was not to be)21 “reremark” changed to “remark” (This was my first truthful remark)41 “cigaette” changed to “cigarette” (lighting a cigarette)68 “Ferdinard” changed to “Ferdinand” (that Prince and Princess Ferdinand had)83 “prommise” changed to “promise” (You have fulfilled your promise)94 “Highnes” changed to “Highness” (Royal Highness is most)171 “beatuy” changed to “beauty” (the acme of physical beauty)212 “semeed” changed to “seemed” (he seemed to urge her).Otherwise the original was preserved.

Transcriber’s Note

Errors in punctuation have been silently corrected. Also the following corrections have been made, on page11 “hesitatation” changed to “hesitation” (very little hesitation in assuming that)14 “my my” changed to “my” (that my opponent was not to be)21 “reremark” changed to “remark” (This was my first truthful remark)41 “cigaette” changed to “cigarette” (lighting a cigarette)68 “Ferdinard” changed to “Ferdinand” (that Prince and Princess Ferdinand had)83 “prommise” changed to “promise” (You have fulfilled your promise)94 “Highnes” changed to “Highness” (Royal Highness is most)171 “beatuy” changed to “beauty” (the acme of physical beauty)212 “semeed” changed to “seemed” (he seemed to urge her).

Otherwise the original was preserved.

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