Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West онлайн

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The old fellow went off into such a violent fit of sneezing that he could not finish what he was trying to say.

"Too bad!" sighed Frank, in a drolly ludicrous manner. "If I had that cold it would be worth a fortune to me. How I envy you, sir!"

The old fellow dropped into his seat, still sneezing and gasping.

Frank made a flourish with the sword, and out in the audience a nervous woman uttered a little cry. The bright blade glittered and flashed through the air, the keen edge struck the potato, and it seemed that it must cleave potato and sever Monsieur Mazarin's head from his body. But the potato simply dropped to the floor in two pieces, and the assistant straightened up, smiling and unscathed.

Some of the spectators clapped their hands. A voice cried "Fake!"

Frank simply laughed.

"In this world," he said, placidly, "fifty per cent. of the things we see are fakes. In modern magic about one hundred per cent. is a fake. That's what makes it interesting. Explain the fakes—if you can."

This was said so good-naturedly that Frank won the sympathy of the audience.