Jack Harkaway and His Son's Escape from the Brigands of Greece

CHAPTER IX.

THE BRIGAND'S CONSPIRACY—THE ARAB ASTROLOGER—HARVEY'S FIRST
APPEARANCE AS A MESMERIST.

"They are making fresh efforts to get Mathias out," said Dick Harvey to his friend Harkaway.

This was the beginning of a conversation which took place at the residence of the Harkaway party just three days after the daring and audacious attack on the hotel.

Mathias had been captured by the patrol while endeavouring to escape, and thrown in gaol again.

"Hang their impudence!" said Jefferson. "Will nothing daunt them? I wish one of them had entered my room the other night; I would have held him faster than it seems the prisons here can."

"These two restless vagabonds are up to their games again," exclaimed Dick.

"You mean Toro?"

"Aye, and Hunston."

"What have they done now?" demanded Jefferson.

"They have been trying to tamper with the gaolers."

"How was it discovered?"

"The traitor, whoever he may be, let fall a letter that he was carrying to Mathias."

"That's lucky. Well, did they discover any thing?"

"No; it was written in cypher."

"The cunning rascals!"

"Now, I've got more news for you," Dick went on to say.

"Out with it, then."

"You have heard of the Arab who tells fortunes in the town?"

"Mehemed Sadan, the great necromancer?"

"Yes. Would you be surprised to learn that he is one of Mathias' band?"

"Why, those scoundrels have a finger in every pie."

"True," said Harvey. "Now, I have a notion to offer you. I propose that we go there and test the truth of what I say."

"How?"

"I'll tell you that as we go. Are you agreed?"

"I'm willing," said Harkaway; "any thing for a little excitement."

Off they went.

Mehemed Sadan, the Arabian magician, carried on his occult practices in a house in the best part of the town, and all his surroundings tended to show that the "black art" had proved a most profitable commerce to him.

When Harkaway, Jefferson, and Harvey arrived there, they were ushered into the presence of the magician by a negro fancifully attired, wearing silver bands round his wrists and ankles, from which dangled chains with small bells attached.

Mehemed Sadan was seated on a high-backed chair, close by a long table, on which was a long cloth of black velvet, covered with mystic signs and letters, which were all so much Greek to the visitors.

The room was filled with all kinds of things calculated to impress the vulgar with superstitious awe.

The effect was altogether lost upon Dick Harvey, for he made a point of nodding at the Arab astrologer in the most familiar manner.

"Morning to you, old fellow," he said, cheerfully.

"Salaam, sahib," responded the necromancer, gravely.

"Hullo!" said Jefferson, opening his eyes, "why, this Arab talks Hindustani."

"Leave it to me," said Dick Harvey, in an undertone.

The Arab then said some few words to the company generally, which the company generally could make rather less of than if they had been addressed in Chinese.

"He's talking no known language under the sun," said Harkaway. "It's my opinion he has got the cheek to talk regular right-down gibberish to us."

It was true.

The words, or sounds, let us say, which the necromancer was uttering, only sounded but too much like "hokey-pokey kickeraboo abracadabra," and the rest of the mysterious sounds with which the conjurer at juvenile parties seeks to invest his performance with additional wonder, for the benefit of his youthful audience.

Dick was in a rage.

"Confound his impudence," he exclaimed; "I'll give him one."

So he let out in this wise—

"Chi ki hi-u-thundrinold umbuggo—canardly keep my thievinirons off your wool—I should like to land you just one on the smeller and tap your claret."

At which, to the surprise of the magician, the visitors burst out laughing.

The Arab necromancer now asked them, in very good Greek, the object of their visit.

"We shall not understand much if we are addressed in Greek," said Harkaway; "try him in Italian."

And then they found that the conjurer spoke Italian as well, or better, than any of the party.

"Can you tell me," said Jack Harkaway, by way of beginning business, "if I shall succeed in the present object of my desires or not?"

The magician bowed his head gravely.

Then he opened a large volume covered with mystic characters.

For a minute or two he appeared to be lost in deep study, and then he gave his reply.

"Your desires tend to the downfall of some lawless men, I find," he said, watching them keenly, as if he expected to see them jump up in surprise at his words.

"They do."

"And you will not succeed."

"Does your art tell you where I shall fail?" asked Jack.

"No; I only see disappointment and trouble for you and yours."

"Dear, dear, how very shocking," exclaimed Harkaway, winking at Harvey.

"Dreadful!" added Dick, with a terrified look, and putting his tongue out at the magician.

"What else does your art tell you?" demanded Jefferson, who was anxious to know how far the necromancer would venture to try and humbug them.

"I see here," said the conjurer, drawing his finger along a line of something on an open "book of fate," that looked like Arabic, "I see here that your lives are menaced, one and all, through the keeping of a wretched man under restraint."

The visitors looked at each other and exchanged a smile.

"Your art is at fault," said Jefferson; "we have no one under restraint."

"You are in some way connected with it."

"Wrong again."

The wizard looked uncomfortable at this.

"Strange," he said, "and yet I read it here as clearly as you might yourself if it were written in a book."

"You are mistaken," said Jefferson; "we are in no way concerned in any thing of the kind."

The wizard pored over the mystic tome again.

"I can say no more then," he said, "for here you are clearly indicated. You especially are mentioned as being the immediate cause of his downfall."

"How am I indicated?" demanded Jefferson.

"By the letter J."

"Which you take for?"

"Your initial."

"Humph! not far out. What an audacious humbug the fellow is," said Jefferson to Jack.

Now, during the foregoing scene, young Jack and Harry Girdwood had joined the party, and Dick Harvey was observed to be in close conversation with them.

At this point Harvey turned from the two lads towards Jefferson.

"The astrologer is right," he said, gravely.

"What the devil do you mean?" exclaimed Jefferson.

"You are right, sir," added Dick to the magician himself.

The latter bowed.

"I doubt it not," he said; "the stars do not speak falsely."

"No, no."

"And so you may convince your friend that I say no more nor less than the truth."

"I can," said Dick, in a voice as solemn as that of the necromancer himself, "for I am a mesmerist, and I have here with me a clairvoyant of great power."

The conjurer started.

"Where?"

"Here."

He held out his hand to young Jack and led him forward.

Harkaway and Jefferson stared again.

"Hullo!" ejaculated old Jack; "what the deuce is madcap Dick up to now?"

"Can't hazard a guess," said Jefferson.

"Mesmerism can not read the future as my art does," said the necromancer.

"It can," said Dick; "it corroborates all you have said. I'll give you a proof of it before our friends here."

And then, before he could object, Dick made a mesmeric pass or two across young Jack's face, and immediately it appeared to take effect.

Young Jack's eyes were closed, and for a moment there played about his mouth a merry smile of mischief, and then he appeared to be in a state of coma.

Never was mesmerism effected with such little trouble.

"Now tell me," said Dick, with all the tricks of manner of the professional mesmerist, "tell me to what this person alludes?"

"He speaks of Mathias, the brigand chief."

"True," said Dick; "and will Mathias escape?"

"No."

"You hear," said Dick, turning towards the necromancer.

"I do."

"And therefore it is useless to try and effect the liberation of this Mathias?"

"Quite," returned young Jack. "The wizard here is trying all he can himself, but he will be discovered by the police and thrown into prison."

"Hah!" exclaimed Dick, "do you hear that?"

"I do," returned the necromancer, "but it is false."

"It is true," said Dick. "So beware."

[Illustration: 'SPEAK,' SAID DICK, MAKING MESMERIC PASSES ACROSS
JACK'S FACE"—ADV. IN GREECE, VOL. II PAGE 64.]

"Ask him more," said the wizard, eagerly. "Ask him more."

"What shall I ask?" demanded Dick.

"Ask him—yet, mark me, I don't believe a word of it—ask him, for curiosity, what follows."

"Follows what?"

"What he said last."

"You mean what follows being thrown into prison?" he said, deliberately.

"Yes."

"Do you hear?" said Dick.

"Yes, master," responded young Jack.

"Speak, then."

By this time Harkaway the elder and Jefferson began of course to see what they were driving at, and they became just as much interested as the wizard himself in what young Jack was going to say.

"What follows," said young Jack, "is too dreadful to look at."

"Speak," said Dick, with a furious pass across the lad's face. "Speak, I command you. What follows?"

"I see the wizard hanging by the neck—there," and young Jack pointed straight before him.

The necromancer looked as unhappy as possible when he heard young Jack's words.

"Do you know enough," asked Dick Harvey, "or would you learn more yet?"

The wizard essayed to smile, but it was a sickly attempt, and it died away in a ghastly manner.

"I can not believe a word of what you say, but still let him speak on."

Dick frowned.

"If you are a scoffer," he said, sternly, "my clairvoyant will not speak."

"I am no scoffer," returned the necromancer; "speak on."

"What would you know?"

"When is my danger to begin? Let him say that."

"Speak," said Dick, making mesmeric passes across Jack's face.

"He need fear nothing at present," said young Jack.

The wizard drew a long breath of relief.

"The police are below," continued young Jack, "but for ten minutes there is no danger."

"Ten minutes!"

"Yes."

"And after?" gasped the wizard, breathlessly.

"Then he is doomed," said young Jack, in sepulchral tones. "The wizard will be numbered with the dead."

Thereupon, the necromancer was taken suddenly queer, and he retreated with a few confused words of excuse.

"He's gone," said Dick, laughing.

They pushed aside the curtains where the magician had disappeared, and found that there was a back staircase.

"There he goes, there he goes!" cried Harry Girdwood, excitedly.

"Yes, and he has left his skin," said young Jack.

Upon the stairs was the long black velvet robe covered with tin-foil ornaments, with which the necromancer was wont to frighten the ignorant and superstitious peasants who came to consult him out of their wits.

"I'll frighten old Mole with this," said young Jack.

"I don't suppose that they'll try to frighten us again into helping Mathias, the brigand chief, out of prison," said Harkaway, laughing.

"He shall hang as high as Haman," said Jefferson, sternly. "Of that I am so determined, that if there were no one else, I would willingly fix the noose myself. But hang he shall for murdering my poor and noble friend Brand."

CHAPTER X.

THE CONDEMNED CELL—MATHIAS ESCAPED—WHERE HAS HE GONE?—THE
BLOOD ON THE HEARTH—A TALE OF TERROR.

The schemes set on foot by the friends of Mathias for his release were so many and so unceasing that the greatest precautions had to be taken to keep him in safety.

Rules were made, and for awhile most rigidly enforced, that not a soul was to be permitted to visit the prisoner; but the exception proves the rule, and there was an exception made in favour of a lady who came and pleaded so earnestly to the governor of the prison that he could not find the courage to refuse her.

The lady was shown into the cell which Mathias had lately occupied.

Lately? Yes.

The bird had flown.

But how had he got free?

Where had he gone?

Not a soul in the prison had the vaguest notion.

The gaoler stared and gaped like one in a dream.

"Where is Mathias?" demanded the woman.

"That's more than I can guess," responded the gaoler, rubbing his eyes as though he could not believe their evidence.

"Have you mistaken the cell?"

"Not I."

"Has he been removed?"

"No."

She stared him straight in the face for a moment or two, and then she burst out into a fit of laughter.

"Ha, ha, ha! Why, he has escaped. He has escaped. He has beaten your vigilance—baffled you all in spite of locks, bolts and bars, and all your watching."

The gaoler scratched his head.

"Let us look."

"Look! why, you can see everything here at a glance—everything. There are four walls. There is the bedstead; you can see under it. There is not room for a man to creep under there. There is the fireplace, and there is the window."

"Ha!" ejaculated the gaoler, "the window."

"What then?"

"There is no other way; he must have escaped that way, undoubtedly."

"Nonsense," said the woman; "don't you see that is too high up from the ground."

"He has found a way to climb up there, then."

"But the iron bars are all in their places still."

"True," said the gaoler, thoroughly puzzled, "true. Where can he have got to?"

"It is simple enough."

"How so?"

"He never attempted the window. He has walked out through the door being left open."

"Never!"

"Money can do more than that, and I rejoice at his freedom."

She moved to the door.

But the gaoler held her back rather roughly.

"Stop you here," he said, rudely; "I shall have to report this to the governor, and you had better remain until the job has been investigated."

And before the startled woman could divine his intention, he swung to the door and shot the bolt.

Then pushing back the trap in the door, he added a few words through the grating.

"You'll be safer there," said he, "unless you can manage to get out as Mathias did. But the devil himself must have a compact with Mathias!"

"At least leave me the light," she said, imploringly.

"Against orders," was all the answer vouchsafed.

The trap was shut.

The woman was left a prisoner, in total darkness.

* * * * *

There is always something unpleasant in darkness, and this woman was by no means iron-nerved.

No sooner was she alone, than a painful sensation of uneasiness stole over her.

"They can not keep me long here," she kept murmuring to herself; "I have done nothing; I am accused of no offence. The governor will set me at liberty as soon as he knows. Could any thing be more unfortunate? Mathias was a prisoner, and I was at liberty. Now Mathias is free, and I am a prisoner. Cruel fate to separate us. We are destined to be parted."

The gloom grew oppressive now.

She stood still, listening in painful silence for five minutes together—five minutes that appeared to be as many hours.

A silence so solemn, so death-like, that she could hear the very beating of her heart. This grew unbearable.

She groped her way around the cell to find the bed, and approaching the fireplace, she was suddenly startled by a sound.

A very faint noise, as of something dripping on the flagstones by her feet.

In the tomb-like silence then reigning, the faintest sound caused her to feel uncomfortable.

She listened awhile intently, asking herself what it could mean.

Drip, drip, drip.

It was strange.

When the light was there, she had not noticed it at all.

What could it be then, that was only to be heard in the dark?

Was it fancy?

No.

It was too real.

There was no mistaking it.

If the oppressive gloom of the cell started strange sounds or strange fancies in her head, why should it take such a shape as that?

Why, indeed?

"Would to Heaven they were back with the light," she said. "Will they never come?"

Just then, as though her earnest wish were heard and answered, a faint thin streak of light was shot into the cell through the grated window above.

This was reflected from a chamber in the prison whose window was close by the window of this cell, and where a lamp had just been lighted.

The welcome ray shot straight across the cell where she stood by the fireplace, and she remarked that the dripping did not cease.

Drip, drip, drip!

She looked down.

"I see, I see," she shudderingly exclaimed, "it is raining, and the rain is falling down the chimney. How foolish of me to get alarmed about nothing."

Now the light, we have said, shot across the hearth, and here it was that the drip, drip, drip, fell.

"Same as I thought."

As she muttered this to herself, she stretched forth her hand under the chimney, and the next drop fell upon it. It was not water.

No, imperfect as was the light then, it sufficed to show her that upon her hand was a curiously dark stain.

Raising it nearer to her eyes, she examined it eagerly.

Then she shuddered, and exclaimed in a voice of terror—"Blood!"

Yes, it was blood.

Pen can not describe the terror of that wretched woman upon making this alarming discovery.

"Blood! Whose? Hah! whose blood? Whose but his—whose but the blood of my darling—my own Mathias?"

For a moment the thought completely unnerved her, and it was little short of a miracle that she kept from fainting.

But she fought bravely with the deathly horror stealing over her.

And kneeling on the hearth, she called up, yet in gentle voice, lest she should give the alarm—

"Mathias! Mathias, my own! Do you not know me? Mathias, I say!"

She listened—listened eagerly for a reply.

And presently it came—a dull, hollow moan, a cry of anguish that chilled the blood in her heart, that froze the very marrow in her bones.

"Mathias, darling Mathias! answer me for the love of mercy; I shall die else."

Another moan was heard.

Fainter and fainter even than the first.

Yet full of pent-up suffering.

A sound that told a whole tale of anguish.

"Mathias, come to me," she called again.

"Oh-h-h!"

A fearfully prolonged groan came down to her, louder than before, as if the sufferer had put all his remaining strength into the effort.

Then all was silent.

Eagerly she listened, straining forward to catch the faintest breath.

But the voice above was stilled for ever.

And yet the drip, drip, drip continued, and as she stretched forward beneath the chimney, she caught the drops upon her face.

Then she could no longer thrust back conviction.

With a wild cry of terror she drew back, and groped her way round the room towards the door.

Her hand rested upon the grated trap, and she pushed it back with all her force, crying aloud for help as she did so.

"Help, help!" she shouted with the energy of despair; "Mathias is dying."

But that wretched man would not trouble the authorities more—His last breath had been drawn as she stood there listening to those awesome sounds.

What could be the solution of this mystery!

This would be known soon now, for the sounds of footsteps were distinctly heard now in the long stone corridors of the prison.

The gaolers had given the alarm at once of the prisoner's escape, and the outlets of the prison were guarded in all directions, while a party was sent to the cell to investigate the matter thoroughly.

At the head of this party was the governor himself.

The time had appeared ten times as long to the unhappy woman as it was in reality.

"Help, help! oh, help!" she cried.

At each effort she grew weaker and weaker. Her voice died away, and when they reached the door of the cell, they found her hanging by the bars of the grated window or trap more dead than alive.

"Show the light," ejaculated the governor.

And then, as the rays fell upon that face, pallid as the flesh of a corpse, save where the dark blood stains had settled, there was an involuntary exclamation of horror from all the beholders.

"Father of mercy," cried one of the men; "she has destroyed herself."

Such was the general idea.

She had committed suicide.

In this, however, they were speedily undeceived.

To burst open the door and rush into the cell was but the work of a moment.

At this the woman rallied a little and recovered herself.

"What is the matter?" asked the governor.

"The chimney!" gasped the woman faintly.

"The chimney! Speak—explain."

"His blood—Mathias's," she said; "see the chimney. I dare not look."

Two of the men by now had approached the chimney, and lowering the light they carried, one of them discovered a dark ominous pool upon the hearth.

"Call the doctor; there is something more than meets the eye in this."

This order was promptly obeyed, and a surgeon was speedily in attendance. A mere cursory glance convinced the man of skill that the blood upon the woman's face was not her own, and just as he arrived at the decision, drip, drip, drip it began again upon the hearth.

The men looked at each other half scared, and the governor himself was scarcely more self-possessed.

The surgeon alone retained his presence of mind.

Snatching a lamp from one of the men, he thrust it as far as his arm could reach up the chimney and looked earnestly up.

"As I thought!" he exclaimed.

"What?" demanded the governor, eagerly.

"He is there."

"Who?"

"Who but the prisoner? Mathias is there—hopelessly stuck—wedged in. He has been trying to escape and has hurt himself."

The woman looked up at these words.

"Is it no worse?" she asked. "Is he badly hurt?"

"I can not say yet," said the surgeon; "we must get him down first."

This proved a very difficult matter indeed.

The flue was so narrow that it was sheer madness to attempt climbing it.

Eagerly Mathias had pushed on, and finally got himself wedged inextricably.

He could neither move up nor down.

It was when he made this alarming discovery that his struggles became desperate, and in his wild efforts to free himself from his self-set trap, he tore and mutilated his flesh most cruelly.

The wounds and the want of air had done their work.

An hour's hard work succeeded in setting the prisoner free—or rather his body, for it was found that life had been extinct, according to the surgeon's report, before they had entered the cell.

And when they came to examine the clothes, they made a discovery which threw a light upon the whole affair.

A small scrap of paper, dirty and crumpled was found in his pocket, upon which was some writing that was with great difficulty construed in this wise—

"The only hope is from the waterside. If you can but reach the roof, and have the courage to make the plunge, freedom will be your reward."

How this note came there was never discovered.

With this dire catastrophe ended the efforts of the brigands to free their unhappy leader.

CHAPTER XI.

MR. MOLE VISITS THE WIZARD—THE MAGIC MIRROR AND THE LIFE-LIKE
VISION—THE INCANTATION—THE CHARMED WIG.

"In point of fact, sir," said young Jack to his tutor one morning, "it is about the only thing worth seeing here."

"What is, Jack?"

"The wizard."

Mr. Mole looked very straight at his pupil upon this.

"What wizard, sir?" he said, severely. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the conjuror that Mr. Jefferson, and dad, and Uncle Dick went to see."

"When?"

"The other day. Didn't they tell you about it?"

"No, sir."

When Mr. Mole addressed his pupil as "sir," young Jack knew pretty well that he thought he was being humbugged.

There is an old saying—"Jack was as good as his master."

Putting on a look of injured innocence, he called his comrade Harry to corroborate what he had said.

"That's quite true, Mr. Mole."

"That Mr. Jefferson went with Mr. Harkaway and Harvey to see a necromancer?"

"Yes."

"Preposterous!" quoth Mr. Mole. "Why, whatever is the world coming to next? We shall have them spirit-rapping and table-turning and such-like muck, I suppose."

Jack looked serious.

"Then you don't believe in necromancy—that they can tell the past and the future by the aid of astrology?"

"Pickles!"

It would have astonished Messieurs Crosse and Blackwell themselves, could they have heard what a deal that one word could convey when uttered by an Isaac Mole.

"Well, sir," said Harry Girdwood, seriously, "the wizard told us some very remarkable things indeed."

"What did he tell you?"

"Many things, many very wonderful things; but one of the most wonderful was about you, sir."

Mr. Mole started.

"Don't you try to come the old soldier over me," said Mole.

Harry Girdwood protested that he held Mr. Mole in far too much respect to essay any thing like coming the ancient military, or indeed anything else which might be construed into want of proper feeling.

Mr. Mole looked hard at him.

"And what did he say about me?"

"He said that all the intelligence of our party was centred in one person."

"Well?"

"And that the initials of the person in question were I. M."

"Now, Jack."

"Sir."

"You two boys are conspiring against me."

"You are rather hard upon us, sir," said Harry Girdwood, with an injured look.

"Was I? Dear me, I didn't mean that," said poor Mole. "But I'll go and see this wizard, as you call him."

"It might startle you, sir."

"Stuff and nonsense, Harry; my nerves are iron—iron, I tell you."

"They had need be of steel, if you really mean to go."

"I'll go, and you shall go with me, Harry," said Mr. Mole; "and I'll unmask this wretched impostor before you."

And down came his clenched fist upon the table, with a fierceness and energy which made all the things leap up.

* * * * *

The chamber of mystery was arranged with a keen eye to effect.

The present possessors of the place had preserved all the adjuncts which had looked so effective during the career of the necromancer, who had fled ignominiously.

A huge stuffed alligator swung from the ceiling, and the lighting of the room was effected by means of two or three swinging lamps, that burnt dimly blue, and made the place look sepulchral enough to satisfy the most morbid cravings for the horrible.

At the further end of the room was a "charmed circle," drawn with chalk, and set around it was a row of hideous grinning skulls, which suggested that a hint had been borrowed from Zamiel, in "Der Freyschutz."

Besides these matters, there were several skeletons stuck up in the most alarming attitudes.

Beside the chair was a large oval frame.

Upon the other side of the necromancer's chair was a heavy curtain, or portière of cloth, covered with fantastic figures, and this was drawn aside a minute or so after Mr. Mole and Harry Girdwood appeared.

Then, through the dark aperture thus disclosed, the wizard hobbled in.

Not the wizard that we have seen before, but a little old man bent half double with age, and of whom little was to be seen save a long white beard and an appropriate robe.

He leant heavily upon a staff, and sank into his chair with evident pain and difficulty.

"What would ye with me?" said the necromancer, in feeble, querulous tones. "If ye have come to scoff again, begone ere I summon an evil spirit to blight ye."

Mr. Mole said nothing.

But when Harry Girdwood placed his hand nervously upon the old gentleman's arm, as if for protection, he felt that he was trembling slightly.

"He knows that we are English, you see," whispered Harry.

"Ye-es—ahem!—ye-es."

"Do you hear me?" said the wizard.

"Ye-es, oh, yes, sir," said Mr. Mole, who could not, for the life of him, get his voice above a whisper.

"Then answer."

"By all means! decidedly—quite so, I assure you."

"What? Beware! Do you mean to doubt and mock?"

"Oh, dear; yes."

"Hah!"

"That is, no. I really don't know what I am saying."

"Silence, or the fiends will have your ber-lud ber-lud—Do you hear me?" shrieked the old wizard.

"Quite so. Dear, dear me, Harry," said Mr. Mole in an undertone, "what a very remarkable person, and I don't want to lose my ber-lud."

"What do you say now, sir? Do you feel sure that he is a humbug?"

"Of course not, but—"

At this juncture their conversation was cut short by a low, rumbling noise, that sounded like distant thunder.

As it continued, it increased in strength, until it became absolutely deafening.

Then suddenly upon a sign from the necromancer, it ceased, and the man of mystery arose and pointed menacingly with his wand at Mole.

"Ye have thought well to neglect my warning," he said, in a voice which thrilled poor Mole strangely; "the secrets of your inmost heart are known to me as to my familiar, and the penalty must be enacted."

Mole bounced up.

"Goodness me!"

Harry Girdwood laid a trembling hand upon the unhappy old gentleman, and played the part of Job's comforter once again with considerable effect.

"We are lost."

"Don't, Harry, don't! Pray consider Mrs. Mole and the two babes."

"Try and melt him with a very humble apology."

"I will, I do!" exclaimed Mr. Mole in great excitement. "I really did not mean it, Mr. Conjuror; 'pon my soul, I did not; and pray do not let your vampires take my her-lud."

"Enough," said the wizard, sternly; "for once your ignorance shall excuse you. Now say what you would have with me and begone."

"I think I should like to go," Mole whispered to Harry,

"What for?"

"We have been a long while here," said Mr. Mole in the same tone; "Mrs. M, will be looking for me."

"Perhaps you don't feel quite comfortable here."

"Comfortable," said Mr. Mole with a sickly smile; "oh, dear me, yes, I never was jollier."

"A little nervous perhaps, sir."

"My dear boy," said Mole, positively, "I have nerves of iron, literally iron. Ha! what noise is that?"

"Only the magician's evil spirit, or his familiar, as he calls it."

"Strange," said Mole; "but sheer humbug of course."

"Humbug?"

"Hush!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, very anxiously.

Bang went that deafening thunder again, and Mr. Mole hopped towards the door.

Harry Girdwood followed him closely up.

"You are uncomfortable, Mr. Mole."

"Not at all; nerves of adamant, Harry."

The latter laughed.

Never was there such an audacious humbug as Isaac Mole.

"You see that frame, sir, beside the wizard's chair?" said Girdwood.

"Yes," replied Mr. Mole; "what of it?"

"He showed us some marvels there last time."

"What is it?"

"A magic mirror."

"You must have been thoroughly well cheated; now, what could he have shown you there?"

"Wonders," replied Harry impressively; "you, amongst other marvels."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, that you appeared before us as plainly as I see you now."

Mr. Mole certainly looked serious at this.

"He can show you anyone you may want to see," said Harry.

"Never!"

"Try him."

"I will," said Mr. Mole, with a show of determination, but shaking all over.

"Now, O sceptic, what proof of my lore would ye have? Would ye know something of yourself?"

"No."

"Yes," said Harry Girdwood for him promptly.

The wizard inclined his head gravely, and opened a large volume before him upon the table.

After poring over this for a time, he said the following doggrel in a deep bass voice—

"The doom of Mole is understood,
For ever more to walk on wood;
Though upon macadam or stone
Yet he shall walk on wood alone.

"Let him march out on asphalte—tile,
In orange groves his thoughts beguile;
Where'er he be, the fate of Mole's
To scud through life upon bare poles"

This peculiar incantation had its effect somewhat increased by soft music.

"Ahem!" said Mr. Mole, "it didn't want a wizard to tell me that."

"What, sir?" demanded Harry, innocently.

"About my wooden legs; my infirmity is visible to every body."

"But how could he know?"

"By looking."

"Still sceptical," said the wizard, who had very sharp ears; "shall I consult my book again?"

"No, no," said Mr. Mole, uneasily.

But Harry Girdwood said "Yes."

He did not want to end the scene yet.

"What would you?" demanded the magician sternly.

Harry commenced to whisper to Mr. Mole.

"Come, sir, pluck up your courage, and find out something about yourself. You know the past—why not ask him about the future?"

"He might be rude enough to say something unpleasant, Harry. However, I'll try him."

Then, with a very polite bow, Mr. Mole asked—

"Can you tell me, Mr. Magician, what my ultimate fate is?"

The necromancer took two steps forward and seized Mr. Mole's hand.

"I find that the line of life is tinged with the hue of blood," said he, in solemn tones, after a lengthened inspection of the palm.

"Dear me, how unpleasant—I washed my hands not long ago."

"Man! do you think you can wash away the decrees of fate or sponge out the solemn words written by the stars? You are an Englishman?"

"Certainly."

"Already six Englishman have sought me, and each of the six died a terrible death. What says the book?—

"A terrible death on this green earth,
With never the slightest chance of heaven;
Let him curse the day—the hour of his birth,
The English victim numbered seven."

"And you are Number Seven, Mr. Mole. May all the powers of heaven and earth preserve me from such a terrible doom as yours."

Mr. Mole almost fainted when the magician uttered such fearful words respecting his (Mole's) fate.

Harry Girdwood, however, handed him a rum flask, and a good pull at that restored his nerves.

"Pooh!" said he, "I don't believe a word he uttered."

"Still sceptical?" said the magician. "But to convince you of my power, I will show you any thing you like in my magic mirror."

"Very well, then, I should like to see Harkaway and Harvey at this present moment—just to ascertain what they are doing—that will be a test."

He chuckled as he said this.

But as he spoke the magic mirror grew light, and two figures were seen, set, as it were, in a frame.

Jack Harkaway the elder, was seated in an arm-chair reading; beside him stood his constant companion, Dick Harvey.

The latter's figure was the more remarkable of the two, and the attitude was not merely characteristic, but it was startlingly like life.

One hand was in his pocket; the other was at his face, the thumb pointing at his nose, the fingers outstretched towards the audience.

"What do you think of that?" asked Harry Girdwood, in low tones.

"Marvellous!" cried Mole; "that is Harkaway and Harvey, sure enough. Harvey has got something the matter with his nose."

"No," whispered Harry, "he's taking a sight at you."

"So he is. Just like Harvey. Harvey!" he called out.

The mirror darkened, and the figures faded away from the sight upon the instant.

"Do you desire still another proof of my skill?" asked the wizard.

"Well you can, if you like, tell me something more about myself; but don't put yourself to any trouble."

The wizard leant over his book earnestly for a consider able time.

"I see here," said he, "that you have contrived to keep one important matter secret from your friends."

"What?"

"The hairs of your head are numbered," continued the wizard.

Mr. Mole changed colour.

"How—what?"

"By the barber; you wear a wig."

"Oh, no—no!" exclaimed Harry Girdwood, positively, "You are wrong there, sir, I assure you. Is he not, Mr. Mole?"

"Of course he is."

"Will you see for yourself, unbelieving boy?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Where—say, where shall my familiar take it?"

"Up to the ceiling."

Mr. Mole groaned.

At the self-same instant out went the lights; a heavy hand was placed upon Mr. Mole's head, and hey, presto! his wig was seen dancing about at the ceiling, glittering with a phosphorescent light upon it.

Mr. Mole looked up, gave one awful yell, then made for the door, and flew away as fast as his wooden legs would carry him.

And his yells continued, for all along his route young Jack had sprinkled a plentiful supply of crackers, which exploded as he ran.

An unearthly chorus, sounding like the discordant laughter of invisible fiends greeted his retreat, and he never stopped until he had got home, panting and gasping for breath.

As soon as he was out of the room Harry Girdwood locked the door.

"Come forth, my merry devils!" he shouted. "Old Mole's gone."

The curtain was drawn back, and in came Dick Harvey and Jack Harkaway, carrying lights.

The wizard threw back his head dress and long horsehair wig, and showed the grinning face of young Jack himself.

"Bravo, Jack," said his comrade, Harry; "you did it ever so much better than the other conjuror did."

"Was he frightened?" inquired young Jack.

"Poor old Mole! I never saw him so alarmed before."

Harvey and old Jack enjoyed the fun every bit as much as the boys.

"My opinion is," said the elder Harkaway, laughing, "that the triumph of the whole job was in the dancing wig."

"It was beautifully done," said Harvey.

"I nearly missed it," said Harry Girdwood laughing, "for you put out the lights so suddenly that I couldn't find the string, and then I nearly dug the hook into his head as well as his wig; and as for the phosphorus, I gave him a dab with it upon the nose."

"Ha, ha, ha!"

Every thing had been carefully arranged beforehand, it need hardly be said, and a cord, with a fish-hook at the end of it, was run over a small wheel fixed in the ceiling.

Harry held the other end of the cord, and as soon as the darkness and confusion came, he drove the hook into poor old Mole's wig, while he rubbed it dexterously with phosphorus, and then with a jerk he hauled it up to the ceiling, where he set it dancing about, to the indescribable horror of Mole.

CHAPTER XII.

WHEREIN MR. MOLE IS CRUELLY USED—THE GARDEN FETE—SUNDAY AND
MONDAY GIVE AN ENTERTAINMENT—ANOTHER LOOK INTO THE MAGIC
MIRROR—STUDIES OF NATURAL HISTORY—AN INVOLUNTARY PERFORMER.

When Isaac Mole had time to reflect coolly upon what had occurred, doubts arose in his mind.

In spite of the seemingly inexplicable nature of the phenomena which he had witnessed, he felt that Harkaway, father or son, must know something of it.

Dick Harvey, he was morally sure, was in it.

If any thing fell, Harkaway would start up, on which Harvey or young Jack would immediately inquire anxiously if he were startled, solely for the purpose of leading up to Mole's words at the wizard's house.

"Startled—nervous! Never; iron nerves, sir—adamant!"

Upon these occasions, Mr. Mole would glide away from Harkaway's room without a word, leaving his tormentors to have their grin out all to themselves.

All they could do they could not make him drop a word of allusion to the events just narrated.

On that topic he was utterly dumb. Day and night the worthy Isaac Mole brooded over one solitary topic.

Revenge.

"I'll teach 'em," he said; "I'll let them know what it is to play practical jokes with a man like me."

The last straw breaks the camel's back. The last indignity on his wig proved too much for Isaac Mole, for he had until that fatal day at the magician's, been fondly hugging himself in the delusion that the secret was all his own.

The talk was tortured and twisted about so as to make it bear upon the sorest subject for the poor old gentleman.

"Dash my wig, Mr. Mole!" Harvey would say; "let's take a short country excursion. You know the advantages of change of hair."

If a suggestion were wanting for the dinner of the day, a voice was ready to advocate "jugged hare."

"That's very well," said Harkaway, "but where can you get one in these parts?"

"That's it," chimed in Harvey; "as Mrs. Glasse says, first catch your hair, eh, Mr. Mole?"

Mole winced.

"It's not always easy to catch it, is it, Mr. Mole?" said Harry Girdwood, slyly.

"Not if it flies too high," said young Jack.

This chaff goaded poor old Mole to fury, coming as it did from the boys.

"Really," he said, with a lofty sneer, "I don't see what you have to laugh at in the idle nonsense of these children."

This made them grin more than ever.

"The wit of the rising generation," sneered Mole.

"Mr. Mole would like the young generation never to rise, I think," said Harry Girdwood.

"That's it," laughed Harkaway; "Mr. Mole was always so conservative in his ideas."

"Let me see, dad," said young Jack, looking puzzled; "Conservative, why, that means a Tory."

"Yes."

"But, Mr. Mole, I thought that you always were a Whig."

Such a storm of laughter greeted this sally, that Mr. Mole could not stand up against it.

Looking daggers at every body, he trudged out of the room, digging his walking stick fiercely as he went.

Now at the door, who should he meet but Sunday, grinning from ear to ear?

"I'm not going to be fooled by you, you infernal black pudding," cried Mole, exasperated beyond measure.

"Yah, yah," grinned the mirthful Caesar Augustus, holding his sides.

"Take that," cried Mole.

Sunday did take it.

It was not a pleasant dose, for "that," in this instance, meant a severe crack across the head with old Mole's walking stick.

Sunday rubbed his poll.

Happily the thick wool with which it was garnished saved the skull from much danger, and a nigger's head is proverbially tough.

But yet Sunday did not relish the indignity.

"You dam wooden-legged ole tief," he shouted out; "I'll gib it to yar for dis hyar."

And so, full of revengeful thoughts, the darkey sought his friend Monday.

And they set to work plotting, with what result the next day showed—much to the old gentleman's disgust.

* * * * *

They mustered a good round dinner-party upon the following day.

In front of the summer house was an object which excited Mr. Mole's curiosity considerably.

One of the ladies asked what it was there for.

"I don't know exactly what it is," replied Harkaway; "something of Monday's, I think, Dick."

"I believe so," replied Harvey, carelessly.

"They are going to give us an entertainment of some kind," said young Jack.

The cloth having been cleared, Monday came forward, and bowing gravely, addressed the company.

"Ladies and gentlemen—"

"Hear, hear!" from Mole, who, thinking himself free from attack, determined to try a bit of chaff upon his own account.

"Thank you, sar," said Monday, bowing gracefully to Mole.

"Ladies and gentlemen—"

"Bravo, bravo!" shouted Mole; "exceedingly bravo."

"Folks generally—sane and insane"—here he bowed in a very marked manner at Mr. Mole.

"Hear, hear!" cried Dick.

"My entertainment is just a-gwine to begin, and as it is of a scientific natur dat asks for all your attention, I must ax them to go at once who don't wish to stay and see it all through, so as not to interrupt me."

"No one wishes to go."

The most eager person to remain was Mr. Mole.

Poor old Mole.

Monday went on—

"The first that I'se gwine to show you, ladies and gentlemen, is some speciminks of what is known as the occult art, that is, the black art, or magic."

Mole winced.

"Go on."

"Hear, hear!" said Dick.

"Bravo, Monday," from Jack Harkaway.

Mole was silent.

He had not another "bravo" in him, so to speak.

Monday bowed in acknowledgment of the plaudits.

"In the first place, den, ladies and gentlemen," he went on to say, "I mean to show you my magic mirror."

Mole glanced nervously at Dick, and from him to Jack Harkaway.

But both looked as stolid as Dutchmen.

Monday drew back the curtain from the easel, disclosing a frame, on which was fitted a plain black board.

"In this frame," said the professor of the black art, "I can show you any persons you may ask for, dat is, persons who are known to you."

Mr. Mole had heard enough to convince him that he was in danger of being once more sacrificed to the insatiable passion of his two old pupils for chaffing and practical joking.

"Well, sar," said Monday, "just you try um."

"We will," said Dick.

"Well, then, sar, who shall be the first person I must bring before you?"

No reply.

"Well, Mr. Mole, name somebody," said Monday, in his most insinuating manner.

Mole's only reply was a dissenting growl.

"No."

"Will you, Mr. Harkaway, sar?" he said.

"Well, I will if you like—suppose that we call upon your friend, Sunday?"

"Very good, sar."

And then he set to work.

A walking stick served him as a wand, and this he waved three times slowly and majestically, while he repeated in solemn tones this singular legend—

"Hokus-pokus, popalorum,
Stickstun, stickstun, cockalorum jig."

Thereupon the curtain went back, and lo! Sunday appeared sitting upon a throne of state, robed in a long crimson mantle, which made him look like an emperor.

It was a most dignified tableau, or it would have been, but for the long clay pipe the darkey held in his mouth and the pewter pot he carried in his hand.

"Ladies and gemmen," said Monday, "dat is our ole friend, dressed as de Empyroar Charleymane."

"Bravo, bravo!"

Even Mr. Mole laughed.

The curtain closed over this dignified and historical representation.

"Now," said Dick Harvey, "let us see some of our live Stock."

"Yes, yes," said young Jack; "show us Nero."

"And Mike."

Monday bowed.

Then back went the curtain, and there sat Nero, the monkey, on the throne just vacated by the emperor "Charleymane," and at his feet stood the bold poodle Mike wagging his tail.

Nero appeared to understand what was required of him, and he sat motionless as a statue for a while, but before long the peculiar nervous irritation to which monkeys appear to be subject attacked him, and he began a series of spasmodic researches in natural history all over his ribs.

"Nero's making up for lost time," said young Jack; "look how he is getting to work."

Nero was indeed scratching away furiously.

"There's diligence," laughed young Jack; "now he's busy."

And then he broke off into the following appropriate snatch—

"He'll catch the flee—he'll catch the flee—
He'll catch the fleeting hour."

Down went the curtain.

There was a general laugh at this.

"When we asked you to show us the live stock," said Dick Harvey, "you took us too literally, Monday."

"Yah, yah!"

"You must learn to draw the line somewhere."

Monday here rapped the ground with his wand to secure attention.

Silence having been gained, he addressed them thus—

"Before we leave dis part of de entertainment," he said, "I conclude de exhibition of one more animal. For reasons dat I need not mention, I shall leave you to guess at de name of dis animal. It is a small animal dat lives on wums."

"Wums?"

"Yes."

"What are they?"

"On wums, scriggley wums and insects, and burrows in the earth."

"Why, dear me," said young Jack, innocently, "that must be a mole."

Before a word could be said, back went the curtain, and Nero was discovered walking upon a pair of wooden stilts.

He staggered about like a man in liquor, and made everyone yell again at the quaint manner in which he had hit off Mr. Mole's movements.

"Whatever has he got on his head?" said someone.

Mole shivered.

He guessed.

Guessed; alas, he was but too sure.

Nero put all his doubts at rest by making a graceful bow and removing his wig instead of a hat.

The wig!

Yea; the identical wig which Mr. Mole had left behind him in his precipitate flight from the conjuror's.

This was too much.

Losing his dignity completely, Mr. Mole jumped up and burst through the group of spectators, dashing out of the place in a perfect fury, young Jack's voice ringing in his ears as he shouted—

"A wig! a wig! My kingdom for a wig!"