look at each other with a forced and unnatural smile. This feeling was
heightened when Hop Sing slowly rose, and, without a word, pointed with
his finger to the centre of the shawl.

There was something beneath the shawl. Surely--and something that was
not there before; at first a mere suggestion in relief, a faint outline,
but growing more and more distinct and visible every moment. The chant
still continued; the perspiration began to roll from the singer's face;
gradually the hidden object took upon itself a shape and bulk that
raised the shawl in its centre some five or six inches. It was now
unmistakably the outline of a small but perfect human figure, with
extended arms and legs. One or two of us turned pale. There was a
feeling of general uneasiness, until the editor broke the silence by a
gibe, that, poor as it was, was received with spontaneous enthusiasm.
Then the chant suddenly ceased. Wang arose, and with a quick, dexterous
movement, stripped both shawl and silk away, and discovered, sleeping
peacefully upon my handkerchief, a tiny Chinese baby.

The applause and uproar which followed this revelation ought to have
satisfied Wang, even if his audience was a small one: it was loud enough
to awaken the baby,--a pretty little boy about a year old, looking
like a Cupid cut out of sandal-wood. He was whisked away almost as
mysteriously as he appeared. When Hop Sing returned my handkerchief to
me with a bow, I asked if the juggler was the father of the baby. "No
sabe!" said the imperturbable Hop Sing, taking refuge in that Spanish
form of non-committalism so common in California.

"But does he have a new baby for every performance?" I asked. "Perhaps:
who knows?"--"But what will become of this one?"--"Whatever you choose,
gentlemen," replied Hop Sing with a courteous inclination. "It was born