THE TRUTH OF HORACE GOLDIN'S ARREST.

SOME years ago, my friend Horace Goldin, who is doubtless the greatest magician in the world to-day, was performing at Hammerstein's Roof Garden in New York. Whether his business had been particularly good or not I cannot say, but in order to enable him to travel about the city and keep his numerous engagements to time, he decided to purchase a new car. I know of no finer judge of an automobile than Goldin, and on this occasion he invested in an extremely expensive and speedy car, complete with negro chauffeur.

One night after his show, Horace was asked to attend the farewell dinner to The Great Kellar. Although he must have felt extremely tired, he was never a man to hurt another's feelings if it could be avoided. He accepted the invitation, and it was well after three o'clock in the morning before he was able to get away.

Although the speed limit in this certain part of New York was fifteen miles an hour, there was a good clear stretch of road ahead, and obeying his master's injunction to "step on it," the chauffeur soon had the speedometer needle pointing at thirty-five miles an hour. But they had not gone very far before they were sighted and overtaken by one of the many "speed cops" that abound in the city. To say that Horace was annoyed would be putting it mildly. But he had been caught fairly and squarely, and knew he would have to see the matter through. He waited in moody silence as the policeman produced his notebook and pencil.

"Wasyername?" asked the upholder of the law.

"Goldin--Horace Goldin."

"What! Not the conjurer?"

"Yes."

The policeman lowered his pencil.

"Say, Mr. Goldin," he said, "I'm real sorry about this. I wouldn't pinch you for a barrel of bucks. What'll I do now?"

"You can let me go," suggested Goldin, nothing if not practical.

"That's just it. I can't do that. You see Mr. Goldin, the inspector's seen me approach you, and I guess I'll have to make a charge. You were doing a good thirty-five, you know. Tell you what," he added as an afterthought, "I'll say you were doing twenty-three. They'll let you off light for that. But you'll have to come to the station."

Seeing that any argument would be useless, the magician returned to his car, and gave the chauffeur instructions to follow the policeman to the station. Arrived at their destination, Horace was taken before the station inspector, and the charge was made out.

The inspector listened in silence while the policeman made his statement. Then he turned to Goldin.

"Bail of hundred dollars until to-morrow morning will cover it," he said.

Now Horace had only ninety-eight dollars in his pocket. He offered to leave this, together with a valuable diamond ring which would more than make up the full amount of his bail.

The inspector waved his offer aside with a contemptuous gesture.

"That's no good," he said. "I can't accept bail from you. It must be somebody else."

Horace bit his lip in perplexity. Here was a pretty kettle of fish. If the money was not paid it would mean that he would have to spend the night in an uncomfortable police cell. But suddenly a brilliant thought struck him.

"What if my chauffeur paid it? " he asked.

"That'll do me," replied the inspector.

The magician turned to his coloured chauffeur who had followed him into the station.

"Now then, Rastus," he said. "The inspector wants a hundred dollars. You must pay it for me."

The negro's eyes opened wide.

"Fo' Heaven's sake, boss!" he ejaculated. "I ain't got no hundred dollars. I ain't got nothin! "

The chauffeur was speaking the truth, and Goldin knew it. But the magician had quickly devised a scheme whereby he could be released from custody. Secretly palming the wad of dollar notes in his own pocket, he turned towards the negro.

"Come, Rastus," he said. "I know very well you've got a big pile of notes in your pocket. Pay my bail, there's a good fellow, and let us get home." As he spoke, he pulled the other towards him by the lapel of his coat, and quietly inserted the pile of notes into the chauffeur's pocket. "Now then," he went on as the negro stared stupidly at him. "Get ahead with it. Just a hundred dollars."

"But boss," said the bewildered Rastus, yo' sure is mad. I tells you I ain't got one buck, let 'lone a hundred dollars. Yes, yo' sure is crazy, boss. I ain't got nothin'."

"I'm certain you have, Rastus. Just feel in your pockets and find out, there's a good chap."

"It ain't no good, boss," exclaimed the negro, inserting his hand into his coat pocket. "I tells yo."-- He stopped short as his fist closed round the wad of notes that Horace had placed there a few moments previously. "Well, I'm --."

"I knew you had," said Goldin, pleased at the success of his scheme. "Just give it to the inspector, and we can be on our way home."

But Rastus was not to be so easily deprived of his unexpected find.

"Sure, I guess I wants all this, boss," he said, grinning. "I wants every buck of it. I saved it all, and I wants it for something ver' special, boss."

This was a development for which Horace was quite unprepared. However, by dint of much talking, and a promise to repay the money in the morning, he persuaded the chauffeur to hand the notes over to the inspector. The latter took them without a word of thanks, and counted them in silence.

"Ninety-eight dollars," he said. "I shall want two more before you can go."

Again Goldin's magical art came to the rescue. "Let me count them," he said. He ran through the pile quickly, and managed to extract a two dollar bill unseen. "Quite right" he agreed. "There's only ninety-eight. Give the gentleman two more dollars, Rastus."

Rastus grinned.

"Yo's taken all I got, boss. Yo's taken all my savings for somethin' ver' special."

"Rubbish. Feel in your pocket again."

The chauffeur did as he was bidden, and wonderingly produced the two dollar note.

"Say, boss," he said, "I sure didn' know I had dat. I guess I must--"

"That's alright. Pay it to the inspector, and we can get home."

The money was paid over, and Goldin was handed a receipt for a hundred dollars, although, of course, he had only parted with ninety-eight. Receiving final instructions to attend at the court early next morning, he returned to his car, and proceeded on his way at a leisurely fifteen miles an hour.

But the comedy was not yet ended. On the next day Goldin appeared in court, and briefed a very capable attorney for his defence. At length the case was called, and the policeman appeared in the witness box to make his sworn statement.

"Tell me," said the counsel. "How fast was Mr. Goldin travelling?"

"Twenty-three miles an hour, sir."

"I see. I suppose you overtook him rapidly on your motor bicycle, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, sir," said the policeman, pleased at this compliment on his professional ability.

"How did you know that Mr. Goldin was travelling at twenty-three miles an hour?"

"By my speedometer. That was the speed it registered."

"Good. But, if you were travelling faster than the car, then Mr. Goldin must have been doing a good deal less than twenty-three miles an hour. That's common sense."

The magistrate agreed, and Goldin was handed back one hundred dollars, with costs against the prosecution. He always says that no money has given him as much satisfaction as those two dollars he made out of the New York police force!