  The Monday night party was in full swing. A stage had been erected and the spectacle that was seen as the curtain rose was of “more than Oriental splendour.” Heavy draperies, potted palms, strange braziers and lanterns, pillowed divans,—all formed a brilliant and interesting picture of an Eastern interior. Richly garbed ladies sat at ease while slaves waved peacock feather fans above their bejeweled heads. Stalwart men stood about, picturesque in their embroidered tunics and voluminous mantles. The movement of the scene increased. Slaves entered with baskets of fruits, musicians came and made weird music, and dancing girls appeared and gave graceful exhibitions of their art. Patty was one of these. In a charming costume of thin, fluttering silks and gauzy veils, she went through the slow swaying steps of a characteristic dance, and enthralled the appreciative audience. She had indeed achieved her desire to give her guests something different from the average evening entertainment. The young men in khaki and in blue, who sat watching, were breathlessly attentive and applauded loudly and often. The whole assemblage was gay and merry. The elder Fairfields were excellent hosts, and chatted with the uniformed guests until even the shy ones felt at ease. Roger and Mona Farrington, too, assisted in this work of getting acquainted, and the result was a pleasant, chatty atmosphere and not merely a silent audience. “Good work!” said Roger, approvingly, to a khakied youth, as Patty executed a difficult pirouette. “You bet!” was the earnest reply. “I’ve seen some dancing, but never anything to beat that! Is she on the regular stage?” “Oh, no. She’s the daughter of the house. But she’s a born dancer and has always loved the art.” “Don’t wonder! She puts it all over anybody I ever saw! And the whole colouring,—the scene, you know,—well, it’ll be something to remember when I’m back in camp. A thing like that stays in your mind, you know, and I’ll shut my eyes and see those furling pink veils as plain, ’most, as I do now. What a beautiful girl she is.” His tone was almost reverential, and Roger instinctively liked the simple straightforwardness of his comment. “Yes, and as lovely as she is beautiful. She’s engaged to a Captain, and it’s hard luck that he has to be away from her.” “It’s all of that! Hullo, look who’s here!” Among the people on the stage there appeared a strange figure. It was a man of swarthy countenance, garbed in pure white draperies, so full and flowing, that he resembled the pictures of the prophets. He walked slowly to the centre of the stage, and made deep salaams to the characters there assembled, then turned and bowed low to the audience. His snow-white, coiled turban almost swept the floor as he gracefully bent in greeting. Then he rose, and began to chant a strange weird incantation. An assistant brought a small tripod filled with various paraphernalia, and the juggler began his tricks. They consisted of the most mystifying legerdemain and magical illusions, for the performer, as Philip had assured Patty, was an expert, though not a professional. The soldier boys and sailor boys were delighted, and watched closely in their desire to see how the tricks were done. And this paved the way to their still greater satisfaction, for the accommodating magician acceded to several urgent requests and explained his tricks. To be sure, it detracted from the mystery, but it added to the interest. One of his startling deeds was this. An attendant brought to the magician a small iron dish filled with kerosene oil. With an eager smile, as of delighted anticipation, the juggler, who spoke no word, made motions for his aid to light the oil. This was done, and the flames proved it to be real oil and really burning. Then, taking an iron spoon, the magician dipped out a spoonful of the blazing oil and putting it in his mouth swallowed it with great apparent relish and enjoyment. He nodded his head and smacked his lips in praise of this strange food, and made a gesture of wanting more. Obligingly, the attendant offered him the iron bowl again, and again a spoonful of blazing kerosene was gobbled up by the hungry feeder. “My stars!” cried one of the audience, “I’ve heard of fire-eaters, but I never expected to see one! Have another dip, old chap!” Smiling acquiescence, the juggler repeated his startling partaking of the oil, and seemed to like it quite as much as ever. “Well, I’ll give up!” cried the interested observer, who had spoken before. “Do tell us how you do that! I’d rather know that than eat a square meal myself!” Dropping for the moment his rÔle of pantomimist, the juggler said, “I will tell you, for it is an interesting trick. For years,—ages, even, the Hindus mystified and deceived people by pretending to be fire-eaters. The ignorant on-lookers, of course, believed that the fakirs really ate fire,—hot coals, blazing oil, or burning tow. “But as a matter of fact, it was all trickery, and deception of the simplest kind. You must know the ignorant people of the Far East are much more gullible and easily deceived than our own alert, up-to-date modern and civilised citizens. And, yet, even among ourselves, it is not easy to understand the fire-eating illusion. This is real kerosene, it is really lighted, you have seen my apparent relish of it. Now can any one explain how it is that I take spoonful after spoonful, yet my mouth is not burnt?” Nobody could guess, and one after another said so. The young men were losing their shyness and self-consciousness in their interest. “Spill it, boss,” urged one, “give us the right dope!” “Yes, I’d be glad to be informed as to the modus operandi,” said another, who was of a different mental type. Indeed, it was all sorts and conditions of brains that were striving to see through this absorbing problem. Patty, still in her place on the stage, looked keenly into the upturned faces. “Dear, brave boys!” she thought to herself; “sooner or later, going ‘over there’ to fight for us and our cause! I am glad to give them a little cheer and fun as occasion offers.” The elder Fairfields felt the same way, and all who were helping Patty in her plan were conscious of a thrill of gratification at the success of it, so far. “I’ve seen it on the vaudeville stage in Paris,” one different looking youth spoke up. “It was slightly different in effect, but I suppose the same principle obtained.” “Doubtless,” agreed the juggler, whose name was Mr. Peckham. “Now, I’ll show you. The whole secret is that when I apparently take up a spoonful of oil, in reality, I only dip the spoon in and out again. It comes out blazing, to be sure, but really empty. It is merely the slight film of oil adhering to the spoon that blazes. However, this is quite enough to give the effect of a full spoon of kerosene on fire. Then, as I throw back my head, as if to swallow this flaming fluid, I really blow out the flame and I am careful not even to allow the hot spoon to touch my lips. But the audience, if the trick is quickly done, see what they expect to see. They are imbued with the idea that I am swallowing a spoonful of burning kerosene, and they therefore think I do so. It is over in a second,—I am swallowing, and smacking my lips, and it is taken for granted that I have done the impossible.” “Huh!” said the youth who had “wanted to know.” “Yes,” returned Mr. Peckham, laughing, “it’s ‘Huh!’ after the secret is told! No trick is as wonderful after it is explained as it is before.” “It is to me,” said a more thoughtful man; “it’s interesting to see how a mere optical illusion is believed to be real by thinking and attentive minds.” “Not only that,” added Mr. Peckham, “but it’s strange to realise how our eyes see, or we think they see, what we expect to see. You anticipated my fire-eating, you looked forward to seeing it, therefore, you thought you did see it.” “That’s it, sir! After all, it’s a sort of camouflage.” “Exactly! I give you something that looks like fire-eating, and you think it is fire-eating! Exactly.” Then he performed many other tricks; tricks with cards or with other paraphernalia; tricks with balls, swords, hats, all the usual branches of “magic” and the enthralled audience were so entertained and spellbound, that the time slipped by unheeded. “Good gracious!” cried Patty suddenly, from her place on the stage, “isn’t it getting late?” “It’s half-past eleven,” Roger informed her, from the audience. “Then we must stop this magicking! I’m sorry, for I could watch it all night, but there’s more programme yet!” “Cut it out!” cried a youthful chap in sailor blue; “give us more hocus-pocus!” “Not tonight,” laughed Patty, and leaving her place, the whole tableau began to break up and the gorgeously attired Orientals came down among the audience and mingled as one group. “I can’t thank you enough,” Patty said, pausing to speak to Mr. Peckham; “it’s so kind of you, and I’ve been so interested!” “Oh, it’s nothing,” asserted the kind and genial man, “glad to do it for Van Reypen’s sake, for Our Boys’ sake, and, most of all, Miss Fairfield, for your sake!” Patty rewarded him with her best smile and ran away to look after the rest of her entertainment. There was to have been music and some other matters, but it was now so late that it was time for the supper. This was a simple but very satisfying repast and the men in uniform showed their appreciation of Patty’s thoughtful kindness in this, as well as in the mental entertainment. “I say, Miss Fairfield,” a stalwart young man observed, “if you knew what all this means to us poor chaps, when we’re miles removed from chicken salad and ice cream, you’d feel gratified, I’m sure.” “I do, Mr. Herron; I am truly glad I can please you but more grateful to you for your appreciation than you can possibly be for my invitation.” “Well, that’s going some!” and the man laughed. “You see, Miss Fairfield, it’s like a glimpse of another world to a lot of us. It is to me. Why, I come from out West, and I’ve never been in a home like this of yours. Oh, I don’t mean to say we don’t have ’em out West,—lots of our plutes roll in gold and all that. But I didn’t. I’m of the every-day people, and my folks are good and honest, but plain. Not that I’m ashamed of ’em,—Lord, no! But I own up I’m pleased as Punch at this chance to be a guest in a fine house for once!” “I hope not only for once, Mr. Herron,” said Patty, who liked the frank young fellow. “I’d like to have you come again.” “You oughtn’t to invite me,—you ought to take a different lot every time,—but, by jingo, if you do ask me, I’m coming! You just bet I am!” Patty laughed and passed on talking gaily to this one and that, asking questions about things they were interested in and conversant with, and in all, being a charming and sympathetic little hostess. Entertaining was Patty’s forte, and she loved it. Moreover, she could adapt herself with equal ease to the most aristocratic and high-bred society or to the plainer and more commonplace people. As for these boys, she loved them, partly because of her patriot spirit, partly from her love of humanity, and largely because now that her own Billee was in the war, all war people were dear to her. After supper there was still time for a dance or two, and the guests entered into this diversion with zest. Naturally, Patty had many would-be partners, and she divided her dances in an effort to please many. Helen, too, was a general favourite. The young men liked the jolly girl and pretty Bumble laughed and joked with them, promising to write letters to them and knit comforts for them and to do numberless possible and impossible things when they were back in their camps, or wherever their duty led them. Chester Wilde was present. He was an urgent suitor of Helen’s, but tonight he tried with all his energies to help Patty in the plan she had undertaken. At last, when most of the uniformed guests had departed, Wilde noticing the tired expression in Patty’s eyes, led her to a cosy sofa and advised her to rest a little. “I’ll bring you some hot bouillon,” he said, “and it will do you good. Let the rest of the girls speed the few parting guests, and you sit here and talk to me.” Patty agreed and soon they were affably chatting. As often, their talk was of Helen. “Doesn’t she look pretty tonight?” young Wilde asked, his eyes straying to the laughing face across the room. “Yes, indeed, she always does,” agreed Patty. “She’s a darling thing, too, Mr. Wilde, and you mustn’t be down-hearted because she flouts you sometimes. I know my little old Bumble pretty well and she’s a great little scamp for teasing the people she likes best.” “It would have been all right, I’m sure,” said the young man, moodily, “if she had stayed in Philadelphia. But here, there are so many men about,—oh, I don’t mean the uniformed men,—but a lot of others who are here at your house now and then, that I can’t help feeling Helen will forget me.” “Nonsense! I won’t let her. You trust your Aunt Patty! Why my middle name is Tact!” “I know it, Miss Fairfield, I know all that, and you’re awfully good to me, but,—oh, well, I s’pose I’m jealous.” “I s’pose you are,” Patty laughed at him. “You wouldn’t be any good if you weren’t! But you know, faint heart and all that. Don’t be faint-hearted, that’s not the thing for a soldier, at all!” “All right, I’ll cheer up. You’re a good friend, Miss Fairfield——” “Oh, call me Patty, I’d rather you would.” “All right and thank you. First names for us, after this. Now don’t think me silly, but,—won’t you do all you can to—to——” “To turn our Helen’s heart in your direction? Indeed I will, Chester, and gladly. But, take my word for it, she likes you better than anybody else, right now.” “Oh, Patty, do you think so?” “I know so. Bumble,—Helen, I mean, is a dear, but she isn’t quite sure of her own mind. Oh, don’t you worry, Chester, my friend, all will yet be well.” “But look at her now. She’s terribly taken with that chap named Herron. See her look at him!” “The green-eyed monster has you in his grip, for sure! Come on, let’s go and see what they’re talking about.” Patty rose and Chester followed her to where Helen and Philip Van Reypen were eagerly talking to Mr. Herron. “Yes,” Herron was saying, “to train a thousand aviators usually means the smashing of more than a thousand machines. Why, every learner breaks up one or two airplanes before he’s a flyer.” “Really!” said Helen, her eyes big with interest. “And how much do these airplanes cost?” “Oh, about seven thousand dollars apiece.” “They do! What a fearful expense for the government!” “The government does have fearful expenses, Miss Barlow,—or so I’ve heard.” “But that’s something awful, old man,” put in Van Reypen. “I’m going to be a flyer, and I’ll begin training soon. That’s why I’m so keen on questioning you. Do I go up in the air at once?” “No, sir. You begin on a machine that stays on terra firma.” “Then it isn’t a flying machine at all,” observed Patty, as she and Chester joined the others. “Well, it is, except that it doesn’t fly! But one learns all the motions on it, and the controls and the handling of winds,—and, oh, quite a few things about it. Then later on, one goes up——” “What a sensation it must be!” cried Patty; “I’m just crazy to try it. May I go up with you, Phil, as soon as you’ve learned?” “Not until I have learned. You’ll take no chances with a novice, I can tell you.” “But I don’t see,” said Helen, “how a machine on the ground is anything like one in the air.” “It’s difficult to explain,” returned Herron. “But, you see, jets of air are blown through tubes, that simulate the currents of real air that affect the man higher up.” “Too many for me!” declared Helen, “my little two-cent brain refuses to grasp it!” “We’ll go down to see Philip perform as soon as he knows enough to show off,” declared Patty. “Won’t that be fun, Helen?” “Yes; may we, Philip?” “After I’m ready to show off, yes.” “Oh, you vainy!” cried Helen. “Never mind, we don’t want to see you when you’re just flying on the floor!” “I really must fly from here,” laughed Mr. Herron. “Such a gorgeous time, Miss Fairfield. May I come again?” “Oh, I wish you would! Don’t wait for a special invitation,—come at any time.” “He will,” Van Reypen said, “I’ll bring him. He and I will be associated, I find, in the Aviation Training Camp, and we’ll often run up together,—mayn’t we, Patty?” “Yes, indeed; as often as you can manage to!” |
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