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

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"Waal, I wisht you could have this cold. It keeps me jest—ker-chew! ker-chew——"

"Hold on! hold on!" cried Frank, bustling about; "don't waste such splendid sneezes! It is too bad!"

"Have to let 'em come when they come, b'jee!"

"Well, we'll soon turn them to account. Are you in favor of free silver?"

"I be, b'gosh!"

"I thought so. That will make it all the easier to turn those sneezes to account."

Frank borrowed a hat from a man in the audience.

"This will do to catch the money in," he said, showing that it was quite empty. "Of course there are no holes in it."

Then he proceeded to poke his index finger at the hat, and apparently thrust it through the crown.

"My! my!" he exclaimed, wiggling his finger and looking at it ruefully. "That's too bad! I'm afraid I have spoiled the hat. It was very tender, or I could not have thrust my finger through it so easily."

Then he seemed to pull his finger out, but when he looked for the hole the hat was not damaged in the least.

Of course this was a simple trick, done with a false finger, but Frank sandwiched it in with the rest, and it "went."