“Ah, I see,” interrupted Imro, “a devotee of the ‘inexhaustible bottle’ trick.” “I want you to take his place,” said the manager, “and fill out the week’s engagement. I will arrange matters with the hotel proprietor for you.” “_Donner und Blitzen!_” cried Fox. “Why, I never was on a stage before in my life. I’d die with fright. Face an audience? I’d rather face a battery of cannons.” “Nonsense,” answered the theatrical man. “Do help me like a good fellow. It will be money in your pocket.” After considerable persuasion, Fox consented. The culinary department was turned over to an assistant. That night Imro appeared on the stage, habited in a hired dress suit that did not fit him like the proverbial “paper on the wall.” With fear and trembling he made his bow, and broke the ice by the following allusion to his very bald pate: “Ladies and gentlemen, why is my head like Heaven? . . . . You give it up! Good! Because there is no parting there!” Amid the shout of laughter occasioned by this conundrum, Fox began his card tricks. In the argot of the stage, he “made good.” This event decided him; he abandoned cooking for conjuring; ménu cards for the making of programmes. His entertainment is quite original. The curtain rises on a gloomy cavern. In the middle is a boiling caldron, fed by witches _à la_ Macbeth. An aged necromancer, dressed in a long robe with a pointed cap on his head, enters. He begins his incantations, whereupon hosts of demons appear, who dance about the caldron. Suddenly amid the crash of thunder and a blinding flash of light, the wizard’s cave is metamorphosed into a twentieth century drawing-room, fitted up for a {273} conjuring séance. The decrepit sorcerer is changed into a gentleman in evening dress—Mr. Fox—who begins his up-to-date entertainment of modern magic. Is not this cleverly conceived? II. A few thumbnail sketches of some of the local magicians of New York City will not come amiss. First, there is Elmer P. Ransom, familiarly known as “Pop.” He was born in _old_ New York, not far from Boss Tweed’s house. He still lives in that quaint part of the city. He knows New York like a book. Once he guided me through the Jewish ghetto, the Italian and Chinese quarters. It was a rare treat. Ransom is a good all around magician, who believes in the old school of apparatus combined with sleight of hand. And so do I. Next we have Adrian Plate, who was born in Utrecht, Holland, in 1844. His rooms in upper New York are the Mecca of all visiting magicians. He has a fine collection of books on magic, and a scrap-book _par excellence_. Thanks to this clever conjurer, I have secured translations of rare and curious Dutch works on necromancy. Plate has always something new up his sleeve. T. Francis Fritz (Frank Ducrot) edits _Mahatma_, a magazine for magicians, and is a good conjurer.