Who could? Who
could possibly invent anything as wonderful as the marvels of the
Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.? And yet unless John Martin gave up
altogether, that is what he must do. Nay, he must do more--he must not
only equal the Modern Sorcery Company's marvels, he must eclipse them.
But after the affair of the challenge, it seemed to Gladys that there
was no help for it--the Hall would have to be closed for a time. Now
that Dick Davenport was dead, there was no one to take her father's
place. On the night succeeding the catastrophe, she had persuaded one
of the Indian attendants to undertake the role of operator, but his
skill was not equal to the tax upon it, and the audience--a poor
one--was very lukewarm in its applause. The following day she talked
the matter over with her father. The latter was in favour of keeping
the show on at any cost; Gladys, for closing it temporarily.
"A bad performance is worse than no performance," she said, "much
better to close till you have invented some new tricks."
John Martin groaned. "I fear my days of invention are over," he
muttered. "If I can read the papers and write letters, that will be
about as much as I shall be able to do."
"Couldn't you retire?"
"I would if I were not a Britisher," John Martin replied, "but being a
Britisher I'd sooner shoot myself than give in to a d----d Yank!"
And Gladys, in terror lest her father should over-excite himself,
promised she would see that the entertainment was carried on as usual,
and that the Indian continued in the role of operator.
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