black box you hold an absolute proof of exactly every move my assistant and myself have made? Quite remarkable!"
The Egyptian took the little black box into his hands. Idly curious in manner, he carried it to the nearest light as if to survey it more closely. And, somehow, his foot caught in a rug and he stumbled.
The black box fell with a crash to the floor, and a creamy-white roll of film cascaded profusely from its confines.
"Really," Mohamet Ali gasped, "I must apologize for my clumsiness!" He stooped as though to gather up the film.
"That stuff's no good now!" shouted the cameraman. "The light has ruined it!"
"How terribly awkward of me!" murmured the Egyptian.
Billy Weaver left the group and, facing Mohamet Ali and Jerry Newman, waved two certified checks.
"What'll I do with these, now?" he queried.
Jerry Newman's face was a mask as he bowed to the Egyptian.
"Give them to Mohamet Ali," he said evenly; and presently he was watching a magician, an assistant, one sword—and two certified checks for five thousand dollars each vanishing through the doorway.
Old Meg she was a gipsy
And lived upon the moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees—
Alone with her great family
She lived as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the moon.
But every morn, of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited mats o' rushes,
And gave them to the cottagers
She met among the bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere—
She died full long agone!
