“Fine! And afterward, we have a little feast, and a little dance, and maybe sing a song or two for a good-night chorus.”
“That’s the ticket! Now, for the list of those who take part, and a few details of that sort, and our preliminary work is done!”
CHAPTER V
A FIRE-EATER
The Monday night party was in full swing. A stage had been erected and the spectacle that was seen as the curtain rose was of “more than Oriental splendour.”
Heavy draperies, potted palms, strange braziers and lanterns, pillowed divans, – all formed a brilliant and interesting picture of an Eastern interior.
Richly garbed ladies sat at ease while slaves waved peacock feather fans above their bejeweled heads. Stalwart men stood about, picturesque in their embroidered tunics and voluminous mantles.
The movement of the scene increased. Slaves entered with baskets of fruits, musicians came and made weird music, and dancing girls appeared and gave graceful exhibitions of their art.
Patty was one of these. In a charming costume of thin, fluttering silks and gauzy veils, she went through the slow swaying steps of a characteristic dance, and enthralled the appreciative audience.
She had indeed achieved her desire to give her guests something different from the average evening entertainment. The young men in khaki and in blue, who sat watching, were breathlessly attentive and applauded loudly and often.
The whole assemblage was gay and merry. The elder Fairfields were excellent hosts, and chatted with the uniformed guests until even the shy ones felt at ease. Roger and Mona Farrington, too, assisted in this work of getting acquainted, and the result was a pleasant, chatty atmosphere and not merely a silent audience.
“Good work!” said Roger, approvingly, to a khakied youth, as Patty executed a difficult pirouette.
“You bet!” was the earnest reply. “I’ve seen some dancing, but never anything to beat that! Is she on the regular stage?”
“Oh, no. She’s the daughter of the house. But she’s a born dancer and has always loved the art.”
“Don’t wonder! She puts it all over anybody I ever saw! And the whole colouring, – the scene, you know, – well, it’ll be something to remember when I’m back in camp. A thing like that stays in your mind, you know, and I’ll shut my eyes and see those furling pink veils as plain, ’most, as I do now. What a beautiful girl she is.”
His tone was almost reverential, and Roger instinctively liked the simple straightforwardness of his comment.
“Yes, and as lovely as she is beautiful. She’s engaged to a Captain, and it’s hard luck that he has to be away from her.”
“It’s all of that! Hullo, look who’s here!”
Among the people on the stage there appeared a strange figure. It was a man of swarthy countenance, garbed in pure white draperies, so full and flowing, that he resembled the pictures of the prophets. He walked slowly to the centre of the stage, and made deep salaams to the characters there assembled, then turned and bowed low to the audience. His snow-white, coiled turban almost swept the floor as he gracefully bent in greeting. Then he rose, and began to chant a strange weird incantation.
An assistant brought a small tripod filled with various paraphernalia, and the juggler began his tricks.
They consisted of the most mystifying legerdemain and magical illusions, for the performer, as Philip had assured Patty, was an expert, though not a professional.
The soldier boys and sailor boys were delighted, and watched closely in their desire to see how the tricks were done.
And this paved the way to their still greater satisfaction, for the accommodating magician acceded to several urgent requests and explained his tricks.
To be sure, it detracted from the mystery, but it added to the interest.
One of his startling deeds was this.
An attendant brought to the magician a small iron dish filled with kerosene oil. With an eager smile, as of delighted anticipation, the juggler, who spoke no word, made motions for his aid to light the oil.
This was done, and the flames proved it to be real oil and really burning.
Then, taking an iron spoon, the magician dipped out a spoonful of the blazing oil and putting it in his mouth swallowed it with great apparent relish and enjoyment.
He nodded his head and smacked his lips in praise of this strange food, and made a gesture of wanting more. Obligingly, the attendant offered him the iron bowl again, and again a spoonful of blazing kerosene was gobbled up by the hungry feeder.
“My stars!” cried one of the audience, “I’ve heard of fire-eaters, but I never expected to see one! Have another dip, old chap!”
Smiling acquiescence, the juggler repeated his startling partaking of the oil, and seemed to like it quite as much as ever.
“Well, I’ll give up!” cried the interested observer, who had spoken before. “Do tell us how you do that! I’d rather know that than eat a square meal myself!”
Dropping for the moment his rôle of pantomimist, the juggler said, “I will tell you, for it is an interesting trick. For years, – ages, even, the Hindus mystified and deceived people by pretending to be fire-eaters. The ignorant on-lookers, of course, believed that the fakirs really ate fire, – hot coals, blazing oil, or burning tow.
“But as a matter of fact, it was all trickery, and deception of the simplest kind. You must know the ignorant people of the Far East are much more gullible and easily deceived than our own alert, up-to-date modern and civilised citizens. And, yet, even among ourselves, it is not easy to understand the fire-eating illusion. This is real kerosene, it is really lighted, you have seen my apparent relish of it. Now can any one explain how it is that I take spoonful after spoonful, yet my mouth is not burnt?”
Nobody could guess, and one after another said so. The young men were losing their shyness and self-consciousness in their interest.
“Spill it, boss,” urged one, “give us the right dope!”
“Yes, I’d be glad to be informed as to the modus operandi,” said another, who was of a different mental type. Indeed, it was all sorts and conditions of brains that were striving to see through this absorbing problem.
Patty, still in her place on the stage, looked keenly into the upturned faces.
“Dear, brave boys!” she thought to herself; “sooner or later, going ‘over there’ to fight for us and our cause! I am glad to give them a little cheer and fun as occasion offers.”
The elder Fairfields felt the same way, and all who were helping Patty in her plan were conscious of a thrill of gratification at the success of it, so far.
“I’ve seen it on the vaudeville stage in Paris,” one different looking youth spoke up. “It was slightly different in effect, but I suppose the same principle obtained.”
“Doubtless,” agreed the juggler, whose name was Mr. Peckham. “Now, I’ll show you. The whole secret is that when I apparently take up a spoonful of oil, in reality, I only dip the spoon in and out again. It comes out blazing, to be sure, but really empty. It is merely the slight film of oil adhering to the spoon that blazes. However, this is quite enough to give the effect of a full spoon of kerosene on fire. Then, as I throw back my head, as if to swallow this flaming fluid, I really blow out the flame and I am careful not even to allow the hot spoon to touch my lips. But the audience, if the trick is quickly done, see what they expect to see. They are imbued with the idea that I am swallowing a spoonful of burning kerosene, and they therefore think I do so. It is over in a second, – I am swallowing, and smacking my lips, and it is taken for granted that I have done the impossible.”
“Huh!”