Mr. Jacobs: A Tale of the Drummer, the Reporter, and the Prestidigitateur

CHAPTER VI

We rode our tiffins back and met Miss Eastinhoe with her friends.

"Let us go on a tiger-hunt," we all remarked, casually.

As we drove home a voice suddenly broke on the darkness.³

"Peace, Abdallah Hafiz," it said.

"By the holy poker, the Jibena-inosay!" answered Jacobs, who had recognized the broken voice.

"I have business with thee," continued the voice; "I will be with thee, anon."

"It is Lamb Ral," my companion explained, as the voice faded away. "Facetious as ever; now you have him, and then again you don't have him. We call him the Little Joker, for short."

"Isn't he difficult to explain?" I ventured.

"Very," he said. "But who has ever explained how a man could keep his family up for years with no visible means of support; or how a person can promenade on his ear; or crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after him. And yet you have seen those things, I have seen them, everybody has seen them, and most of us have done them ourselves."

Later in the evening we were visited by Lamb Ral.

"Do not go tiger-hunting," he said. "It will take you out of the lines of the jewellery trade."

"Still I shall go," persisted Jacobs.

"What a singular piece of workmanship is that ytaghan!" observed Lamb Ral, waving one delicate hand towards the wall behind us.

When we turned back from seeing that there was no ytaghan there, the magician had disappeared, leaving a strong smell of lucifer matches behind him, but taking a number of triple-plated watches.

"Singular man," said Jacobs, musingly. "I wish I knew how he does it. It must be profitable."

CHAPTER VII

We had tiffin with Miss Eastinhoe. Mr. Jacobs, in evening dress, looked surpassingly lovely.

CHAPTER VIII

In the third game of polo a clumsy player struck Mr. Jacobs on the back of his head, laying open his skull. The wounded man fell from his saddle, but his foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged several miles by the infuriated Arab pony.

"Don't give him brandy," remarked Miss Eastinhoe, calmly. "Water will do quite as well. It is cheaper, and, as he is insensible, he will not know the difference."

"Thank you," replied Jacobs, gracefully tying his head together with a white woollen shawl. "We will start on the tiger hunt to-morrow."

He carefully lighted a cigarette and rode home.

"Briggs," Jacobs said, producing a mysterious trick bottle, "do as I tell you or you are a dead man. Stuff this wax into your nose, and bathe the back of my neck with this powerful remedy unknown to your Western medicine. I shall then fall asleep. If I do not wake before midnight, I shall sleep until breakfast time. You can easily arouse me by pressing the little silver knob behind my left ear. If you cannot remember, write it down."

Being a newspaper man, I naturally took out an old letter upon which to jot down his instructions. I faithfully carried out all his directions, and it is to be remarked in passing that on removing the wax from my nostrils, I was conscious of a strong odor of Scotch whiskey.