To the little man who sweated in the glare of the
limelight and juggled desperately with glass balls in a vain effort
to steady his nerve it was apparent that his turn was a failure. And
as he worked he could have cried with disappointment, for his was a
trial performance, and a year's engagement in the Hennings' group of
music-halls would have rewarded success. Yet his tricks, things that
he had done with the utmost ease a thousand times, had been a
succession of blunders, rather mirth-provoking than mystifying to
the audience. Presently one of the glass balls fell crashing on the
stage, and amidst the jeers of the gallery he turned to his wife,
who served as his assistant.
"I've lost my chance," he said, with a sob; "I can't do it!"
"Never mind, dear," she whispered. "There's a nice steak and onions
at home for supper."
"It's no use," he said despairingly. "I'll try the disappearing trick
and then get off. I'm done here." He turned back to the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said to the mockers in a wavering voice,
"I will now present to you the concluding item of my entertainment. I
will cause this lady to disappear under your very eyes, without the
aid of any mechanical contrivance or artificial device." This was the
merest showman's patter, for, as a matter of fact, it was not a very
wonderful illusion. But as he led his wife forward to present her to
the audience the conjurer was wondering whether the mishaps that had
ruined his chance would meet him even here.
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