"Monsieur," says the juggler, "why do you carry away my globes! I cannot earn my living without the implements of my profession."
The people form a ring about Arthur, who, purple with rage, exclaims:
"I have not got your globes; go about your business."
"I beg Monsieur's pardon a thousand times, but he has my globes in his hat."
The juggler takes off Arthur's hat and extracts from it three immense balls. The trick is adroitly done; the people look on admiringly. Arthur feels like thrashing the conjurer, and takes to his heels. The skeptically inclined smile and say:
"He is an accomplice!"
Further on is a man peddling phosphorus boxes.
"Here you have the genuine inflammable paste. You have no need of ready-made matches; all you have to do is to take the least little bit of my paste on the end of a knife, on the end of your cane, on the end of anything you please, no matter what; the least contact with a lamp-wick serves to light it at once.
"To say nothing of its utility, my inflammable paste is a source of innocent and entertaining amusement, an incentive to merriment and enjoyment in society. You are out spending the evening—at a minister's house, we will say; an awkward fellow attempts to snuff the candle and puts it out; result, Egyptian darkness. Every one has something funny to say; the young men take advantage of the obscurity to kiss the pretty girls, but what do you do? You take out your little box, that you always carry about with you in your pocket; you bet the mistress of the
