The Sunny Side

by A. A. Milne

  So much by way of introduction. It is a difficult style of writing to keep up, particularly when the number of synonyms for “conjuring” is so strictly limited. Let me now get to the tricks. I call the first

  HOLDING THE LEMON

  For this trick you want a lemon and a pack of ordinary playing-cards. Cutting the lemon in two, you hand half to one member of your audience and half to another, asking them to hold the halves up in full view of the company. Then, taking the pack of cards in your own hands, you offer it to a third member of the party, requesting him to select a card and examine it carefully. When he has done this he puts it back in the pack, and you seize this opportunity to look hurriedly at the face of it, discovering (let us say) that it is the five of spades. Once more you shuffle the pack; and then, going through the cards one by one, you will have no difficulty in locating the five of spades, which you will hold up to the company with the words “I think this is your card, sir”—whereupon the audience will testify by its surprise and appreciation that you have guessed correctly.

  It will be noticed that, strictly speaking, the lemon is not a necessary adjunct of this trick; but the employment of it certainly adds an air of mystery to the initial stages of the illusion, and this air of mystery is, after all, the chief stock-in-trade of the successful conjurer.

  For my next trick, which I call

  THE ILLUSORY EGG

  and which is most complicated, you require a sponge, two tablecloths, a handful of nuts, a rabbit, five yards of coloured ribbon, a top-hat with a hole in it, a hard-boiled egg, two florins and a gentleman’s watch. Having obtained all these things, which may take some time, you put the two tablecloths aside and separate the other articles into two heaps, the rabbit, the top-hat, the hard-boiled egg, and the handful of nuts being in one heap, and the ribbon, the sponge, the gentleman’s watch and the two florins in the other. This being done, you cover each heap with a tablecloth, so that none of the objects beneath is in any way visible. Then you invite any gentleman in the audience to think of a number. Let us suppose he thinks of 38. In that case you ask any lady in the audience to think of an odd number, and she suggests (shall we say?) 29. Then, asking the company to watch you carefully, you—you—To tell the truth, I have forgotten just what it is you do do, but I know that it is a very good trick, and never fails to create laughter and bewilderment. It is distinctly an illusion worth trying, and, if you begin it in the manner I have described, quite possibly some way of finishing it up will occur to you on the spur of the moment. By multiplying the two numbers together and passing the hard-boiled egg through the sponge and then taking the…or is it the—Anyway, I’m certain you have to have a piece of elastic up the sleeve…and I know one of the florins has to—No, it’s no good, I can’t remember it.

  But mention of the two numbers reminds me of a trick which I haven’t forgotten. It is a thought-reading illusion, and always creates the maximum of wonderment amongst the audience. It is called

  THE THREE QUESTIONS

  As before, you ask a gentleman in the company to write down a number on a piece of paper, and a lady to write down another number. These numbers they show to the other guests. You then inform the company that you will ask any one of them three questions, and by the way they are answered you will guess what the product of the two numbers is. (For instance, if the numbers were 13 and 17, then 13 multiplied by 17 is—let’s see, thirteen sevens are—thirteen sevens—seven threes are twenty-one, seven times one is—well, look here, let’s suppose the numbers are 10 and 17. Then the product is 170, and 170 is the number you have got to guess.)

  Well, the company selects a lady to answer your questions, and the first thing you ask her is: “When was Magna Carta signed?” Probably she says that she doesn’t know. Then you say, “What is the capital of Persia?” She answers Timbuctoo, or Omar Khayyam, according to how well informed she is. Then comes your last question: “What makes lightning?” She is practically certain to say, “Oh, the thunder.” Then you tell her that the two numbers multiplied together come to 170.

  How is this remarkable trick performed? It is quite simple. The two people whom you asked to think of the numbers are confederates, and you arranged with them beforehand that they should write down 10 and 17. Of course it would be a much better trick if they weren’t confederates; but in that case I don’t quite know how you would do it.

  I shall end up this interesting and instructive article with a rather more difficult illusion. For the tricks I have already explained it was sufficient that the amateur prestidigitator (I shall only say this once more) should know how it was done; for my last trick he will also require a certain aptitude for legerdemain in order to do it. But a week’s quiet practice at home will give him all the skill that is necessary.

  THE MYSTERIOUS PUDDING

  is one of the oldest and most popular illusions. You begin by borrowing a gold watch from one of your audience. Having removed the works, you wrap the empty case up in a handkerchief and hand it back to him, asking him to put it in his waistcoat pocket. The works you place in an ordinary pudding basin and proceed to pound up with a hammer. Having reduced them to powder, you cover the basin with another handkerchief, which you borrow from a member of the company, and announce that you are about to make a plum-pudding. Cutting a small hole in the top of the handkerchief, you drop a lighted match through the aperture; whereupon the handkerchief flares up. When the flames have died down you exhibit the basin, wherein (to the surprise of all) is to be seen an excellent Christmas pudding, which you may ask your audience to sample. At the same time you tell the owner of the watch that if he feels in his pockets he will find his property restored to him intact; and to his amazement he discovers that the works in some mysterious way have got back into his watch, and that the handkerchief in which it was wrapped up has gone!

  Now for the explanation of this ingenious illusion. The secret of it is that you have a second basin, with a pudding in it, concealed in the palm of your right hand. At the critical moment, when the handkerchief flares up, you take advantage of the excitement produced to substitute the one basin for the other. The watch from which you extract the works is not the borrowed one, but one which you have had concealed between the third and fourth fingers of the left hand. You show the empty case of this watch to the company, before wrapping the watch in the handkerchief and handing it back to its owner. Meanwhile with the aid of a little wax you have attached an invisible hair to the handkerchief, the other end of it being fastened to the palm of your left hand. With a little practice it is not difficult to withdraw the handkerchief, by a series of trifling jerks, from, the pocket of your fellow-guest to its resting place between the first and second finger of your left hand.

  One word more. I am afraid that the borrowed handkerchief to which you applied the match really did get burnt, and you will probably have to offer the owner one of your own instead. That is the only weak spot in one of the most baffling tricks ever practised by the amateur prestidigitator (to use the word for the last time). It will make a fitting climax to your evening’s entertainment—an entertainment which will ensure you another warm invitation next year when the “festive season” (copyright) comes upon us once again.

  And Others

  My Film Scenario

  [Specially written for Economic Pictures, Limited, whose Manager has had the good fortune to pick up for a mere song (or, to be more accurate, for a few notes) several thousand miles of discarded cinema films from a bankrupt company. The films comprise the well-known “Baresark Basil, the Pride of the Ranch” (two miles long), “The Foiler Foiled” (one mile, three furlongs, two rods, poles or perches), “The Blood-stained Vest” (fragment—eighteen inches), “A Maniac’s Revenge” (5,000 feet), “The Life of the Common Mosquito” (six legs), and so forth.]

  Twenty-five years before our film opens, Andrew Bellingham, a young man just about to enter his father’s business, was spending a holiday in a little fishing village in Cornwall. The daughter of
the sheep-farmer with whom he lodged was a girl of singular beauty, and Andrew’s youthful blood was quickly stirred to admiration. Carried away by his passion for her, he—

  [MANAGER. Just a reminder that Mr. T.P. O’Connor has to pass this before it can be produced.]—he married her—

  [MANAGER. Oh, I beg pardon.]—and for some weeks they lived happily together. One day he informed Jessie that he would have to go back to his work in London, and that it might be a year or more before he could acknowledge her openly as his wife to his rich and proud parents. Jessie was prostrated with grief; and late that afternoon her hat and fringe-net were discovered by the edge of the waters. Realizing at once that she must have drowned herself in her distress, Andrew took an affecting farewell of her father and the sheep, and returned to London. A year later he married a distant cousin, and soon rose to a condition of prosperity. At the time our film begins to unwind, he was respected by everybody in the City, a widower, and the father of a beautiful girl of eighteen called Hyacinth.

  [MANAGER. Now we’re off. What do we start with?]

  I

  On the sunny side of Fenchurch Street—

  [MANAGER. Ah, then I suppose we’d better keep back the Rescue from the Alligator and the Plunge down Niagara in a Barrel.]—Andrew Bellingham was dozing in his office. Suddenly he awoke to find a strange man standing over him.

  “Who are you?” asked Mr. Bellingham. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Jasper,” was the answer, “and I have some information to give you.” He bent down and hissed, “Your first wife is still alive!”

  Andrew started up in obvious horror. “My daughter,” he gasped, “my little Hyacinth! She must never know.”

  “Listen. Your wife is in Spain—

  [MANAGER. Don’t waste her. Make it somewhere where there are sharks.

  AUTHOR. It’s all right, she’s dead really.]—and she will not trouble you. Give me a thousand pounds and you shall have these; and he held out a packet containing the marriage certificate, a photograph of Jessie’s father dipping a sheep, a receipted bill for a pair of white gloves, size 9-½, two letters signed “Your own loving little Andy Pandy,” and a peppermint with “Jess” on it in pink. Once these are locked up in your safe, no one need ever know that you were married in Cornwall twenty-five years ago.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Mr. Bellingham took a handful of bank notes from his pocketbook, and the exchange was made. At all costs he must preserve his little Hyacinth from shame. Now she need never know. With a forced smile he bowed Jasper out, placed the packet in his safe and returned to his desk.

  But his mysterious visitor was not done with yet. As soon as the door had closed behind him Jasper re-entered softly, drugged Andrew hastily, and took possession again of the compromising documents. By the time Mr. Bellingham had regained his senses the thief was away. A hue-and-cry was raised, police whistles were blown, and Richard Harrington, Mr. Bellingham’s private secretary, was smartly arrested.

  At the trial things looked black against Richard. He was poor and he was in love with Hyacinth; the chain of evidence was complete. In spite of his impassioned protest from the dock, in spite of Hyacinth’s dramatic swoon in front of the solicitor’s table, the judge with great solemnity passed sentence of twenty years’ penal servitude. A loud “Hear, hear” from the gallery rang through the court, and, looking up, Mr. Bellingham caught the sardonic eye of the mysterious Jasper.

  II

  Richard had been in prison a month before the opportunity for his escape occurred. For a month he had been hewing stone in Portland, black despair at his heart. Then, like lightning, he saw his chance and took it. The warders were off guard for a moment. Hastily lifting his pickaxe—

  [MANAGER. Sorry, but it’s a spade in the only prison film we’ve got.]

  Hastily borrowing a spade from a comrade who was digging potatoes, he struck several of his gaolers down, and, dodging the shots of others who hurried to the scene, he climbed the prison wall and dashed for freedom.

  Reaching Weymouth at nightfall, he made his way to the house which Hyacinth had taken in order to be near him, and, suitably disguised, travelled up to London with her in the powerful motor which she had kept ready. “At last, my love, we are together,” he murmured as they neared Wimbledon. But he had spoken a moment too soon. An aeroplane swooped down upon them, and Hyacinth was snatched from his arms and disappeared with her captors into the clouds.

  III

  Richard’s first act on arriving in London was to go to Mr. Bellingham’s house. Andrew was out, but a note lying on his study carpet, “Meet me at the Old Windmill to-night,” gave him a clue. On receipt of this note Andrew had gone to the rendezvous, and it was no surprise to him when Jasper stepped out and offered to sell him a packet containing a marriage certificate, a photograph of an old gentleman dipping a sheep, a peppermint lozenge with “Jess” on it, and various other documents for a thousand pounds.

  “You villain,” cried Andrew, “even at the trial I suspected you,” and he rushed at him fiercely.

  A desperate struggle ensued. Breaking free for a moment from the vice-like grip of the other, Jasper leapt with the spring of a panther at one of the sails of the windmill as it came round, and was whirled upwards; with the spring of another panther, Andrew leapt on to the next sail and was whirled after him. At that moment the wind dropped, and the combatants were suspended in mid-air.

  It was upon this terrible scene that Richard arrived. Already a crowd was collecting; and, though at present it did not seem greatly alarmed, feeling convinced that it was only assisting at another cinematograph rehearsal, its suspicions might at any moment be aroused. With a shout he dashed into the mill. Seeing him coming Jasper dropped his revolver and slid down the sail into the window. In a moment he reappeared at the door of the mill with Hyacinth under his arm. “Stop him!” cried Richard from underneath a sack of flour. It was no good. Jasper had leapt with his fair burden upon the back of his mustang and was gone…

  The usual pursuit followed.

  IV

  It was the gala night at the Royal Circus. Ricardo Harringtoni, the wonderful new acrobat of whom everybody was talking, stood high above the crowd on his platform. His marvellous performance on the swinging horizontal bar was about to begin. Richard Harrington (for it was he) was troubled. Since he had entered on his new profession—as a disguise from the police who were still searching for him—he had had a vague suspicion that the lion-tamer was dogging him. Who was the lion-tamer? Could it be Jasper?

  At that moment the band struck up and Richard leapt lightly on to the swinging bar. With a movement full of grace he let go of the bar and swung on to the opposite platform. And then, even as he was in mid-air, he realized what was happening.

  Jasper had let the lion loose!

  It was waiting for him.

  With a gasping cry Ricardo Harringtoni fainted.

  V

  When he recovered consciousness, Richard found himself on the S.S. “Boracic,” which was forging her way through the—

  [MANAGER. Somewhere where there are sharks.]

  —the Indian Ocean. Mr. Bellingham was bathing his forehead with cooling drinks.

  “Forgive me, my boy,” said Mr. Bellingham, “for the wrong I did you. It was Jasper who stole the compromising documents. He refuses to give them back unless I let him marry Hyacinth. What can I do?”

  “Where is she?” asked Richard.

  “Hidden away no one knows where. Find her, get back the documents for me, and she is yours.”

  At that moment a terrible cry rang through the ship, “Man overboard!” Pushing over Mr. Bellingham and running on deck, Richard saw that a woman and her baby were battling for life in the shark-infested waters. In an instant he had plunged in and rescued them. As they were dragged together up the ship’s side he heard her murmur, “Is little Jasper safe?”

  “Jasper?” cried Richard.

  “Yes, called after his daddy.”
r />   “Where is daddy now?” asked Richard hoarsely.

  “In America.”

  “Can’t you see the likeness?” whispered Richard to Mr. Bellingham. “It must be. The villain is married to another. But now I will pursue him and get back the papers.” And he left the boat at the next port and boarded one for America.

  The search through North and South America for Jasper was protracted. Accompanied sometimes by a band of cowboys, sometimes by a tribe of Indians, Richard scoured the continent for his enemy. There were hours when he would rest awhile and amuse himself by watching the antics of the common mosquito [Manager. Good!] or he would lie at full length and gaze at a bud bursting into flower. [Manager. Excellent!] Then he would leap on to his steed and pursue the trail relentlessly once more.

  One night he was dozing by his camp-fire, when he was awakened roughly by strong arms around his neck and Jasper’s hot breath in his ear.

  “At last!” cried Jasper, and, knocking Richard heavily on the head with a boot, he picked up his unconscious enemy and carried him to a tributary of the Amazon noted for its alligators. Once there he tied him to a post in mid-stream and rode hastily off to the nearest town, where he spent the evening witnessing the first half of “The Merchant of Venice.” [Manager. Splendid!] But in the morning a surprise awaited him. As he was proceeding along the top of a lonely cliff he was confronted suddenly by the enemy whom he had thought to kill.