Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 August 1884 — He Learned Mind-Reading. [ARTICLE]

He Learned Mind-Reading.

The editor eat in his easy-chair. Editors always sit in easy-chairs. He leaned back and drew a long whiff from his fragrant pipe, and blew it far out upon the sultry summer air. Away down in the recesses of the editor’s soul a solemn stillness reigned. It made the editor sad to realize the presence of that solemn stillness; because what the editor was looking for an idea—a great big booming idea that would fill a column of brevier single leaded. Suddenly there was a slow tramp of feet upon the stairs. The editor listened. No, it was not the sighing of the wind; it was a pair of N 0.9 extra double heavy-soled shoes. The owner, perchance, was the bearer of a bill, a long-due bill. Would the editor flee? Upon this particular occasion he would not. He made up his mind to stand his ground and bluff the man. In another minute the stranger stood in the doorway. When he caught sight of the editor he paused, and the thunderer had time to contemplate his appearance. A massive forehead he had, surrounded by dark clusters of raven ringlets that reeked with the essence of the defunct opossum. His hat had seen better days—before the flood. His coat was enriched with the stains of many a winter. His trousers were full of polish, and his shoes were innocent of the same. The stranger advanced and took off his hat. “Have I the honor,” he inquired, “of beholding the editor-in-chief?” “My friend,” replied the editor, “you have. If your soul has been hungering in the dark chasms of a beclouded {>ast for one shaft of that heavenly ight that falls from the editorial chair, now is your time. Get in your little gaze, and don’t be bashful. I* am the person who works the thunder machine of this establishment. If there is anything I can do for you, name it and I won’t do it." “I know of nothing that you can do for me,” replied the stranger. “Then what is your secret ?” “I have come to do something for you!" “Great Scott I” exclaimed the editor, as he reseated himself. “I am Julius Benedict Mun khazy, the mind-reader,” said the strangerr “Don’t say so?” said the editor. “But I do. And what I want to do is to teach you the great art. Now, Stuart Cumberland and Irving Bishop are working the advertising dodge across the water beautifully. Cumberland has himself interviewed by Labouchere. Know Lab? No? He’s n. g., and says Bishop is a swindler. Then Bish sues Lab for libel, and the whole gang gets a big boom out of it. It’s a great scheme. But those fellows are mere tyros in the business. I know more about it in five minutes than they do in five years. And I can teach you to do it in one lesson.” “You can?" “I can every time.” The editor looked thoughtful. Hfe was sorely tempted to learn this art. How he could astonish his wife by going home and looking into her nutbrown eyes and saying: “Yes, dear, you shall have a seal-skin ulster in the spring!” And how astonished his mother-in-law would be if he said to her: “No, mother-in-law, you are wrong; it was not beer I drank, as you are thinking, but ginger-ale!” “How much does this cost?” he in-

quired. “Sir” replied the stranger; “I’m laboring for the love of psychological science.” “Proceed with the obsequies, then.” The stranger immediately borrowed the editor’s handkerchief and blindfolded him with it. “That,” he said; “is to prevent'you from thinking of anything else. Now, you take my hands; I think of something, and you endeavor to lead me to it. You will find yourself drawn forward by a sort of irresistible impulse. Now, then, I’ve thought of something. Are you ready?" “les,” replied the editor. Then he reached out for the stranger’s hand, and found it seizing his own in a vise-like grip. The editor started forward, and the stranger’s hand urged him gently toward the door. He recognized the impulse and went. Down the stairs they went, and out into the street. The pace increased every moment. Down the street they ran at a rattling pace, and flew around the corner at a 220-yards dash gait. The next moment they wheeled sharp around and dashed through a doorway. They turned and twisted into the room, and then the editor felt his hand placed on something cold. “You’ve got it, by George!” exclaimed the stranger. “Got what?” inquired the editor, faintly, the perspiration dripping from every pore. “What I was thinking of!” “What is it?” “Here let me take off the bandage.” The stranger pulled the handkerchief off the editor’s eyes. The editor stared around and a light broke in upon his brain. He was in a bar-room. He was grasping an ice-cold bottle of Aged Thomas Gin. He did not kill the stranger. He set ’em up for all present.— JK. J. Henderson, in Pack.