"There's your latter end for you," says the conjurer. "You wanted
to see something. I hope you're content."

The big fellow turns white, gulps, gives a bellow, and makes a rush;
but the conjurer isn't there, nor his screen nor anything.

Everybody in the room was white and shaken -- all but the sea-captain.
He just tamps his pipe as if nothing had happened, and smokes on.
He doesn't even take a drink from his glass.

And a little while later an Irish chieftain walks in. He's poor
and ragged and very thin. You might know he'd been fighting the
heathen for the Holy sepulchre, and so entitled to respect, no
matter what his condition. And behind him are five clansmen as
ragged as he. But a big German trooper rolls up.

"And what are you?" says the big, burly fellow.

"A gentleman, I hope," says the ragged chief.

"'Tis yourself that says it," laughs the German trooper. The chieftain
snicks the knife from his armpit, and sticks him in the jugular as
neat as be damned.

"You'd might take that out, Kevin Beg" -- the Irish chief points to
the killed man -- "and throw it in the canal. Somebody might stumble
over it and bark their shins."

Now this, as you can conceive, roused a powerful commotion in the room.
They were all on their feet, captains and mariners and men-at-arms,