“Did he only do one trick?” said the little maid on Cousin Peregrine’s knee.

“Oh, he did lots of tricks,” said Cousin Peregrine, “many of them common Eastern ones, which are now familiar in England, but which he certainly performed in a wonderful way:  because, you see, he had not the advantage of doing his tricks on a stage fitted up by himself, he did them in the street, or in my courtyard, with very little apparatus, and naked to the waist.  For instance, the common trick of bringing a glass bowl full of water and fish out of a seemingly empty shawl is not so marvellous if the conjurer has a well-draped table near him from behind which he can get such things, or even good wide sleeves to hide them in.  But my poor conjurer was almost naked, and the bit of carpet, about the size of this hearthrug, which he carried with him, did not seem capable of holding glass bowls of water, most certainly.  Besides which he shook it, and spread it on the ground close by me, after which he threw himself down and rolled on it.  And yet from underneath this he drew out a glass bowl of water with gold-fish swimming in it.  But that trick and many others one can see very well done in London now, though not so utterly without apparatus.  The trick which he did so particularly well, and which puzzled me so much, I have never seen in Europe.  This is the one I am going to describe to you.”

“Describe the conjurer a bit more first, Cousin Peregrine.”

“There is nothing more to describe.  He was not at all a grand conjurer, he was only a poor common juggler, exhibiting his tricks in the public streets many times in the day for the few small coins which the bystanders chose to give him.  He was a very merry fellow, and all the time he was about his performance he kept making fun and jokes; and these amused the audience so much that you may believe that I was sorry my ignorance of his language hindered me from understanding them.

“All sorts of people used to stop and look at the juggler:  brawny porters, with loads of merchandise, or boxes of tea, or bars of silver, which they carried in boxes or baskets slung on bamboo poles over their shoulders.”

“Like the pictures on the tea-boxes,” whispered little Bessy.

“There’s a figure of it in the grocer’s window,” said her brother, who had seen more of the world than Bessy; “not a picture, a figure dressed in silk; and they’re square boxes, not baskets, that he’s got—­wooden panniers I call them.”

“Who else used to stop, Cousin Peregrine?” asked Maggie.

“Street confectioners, Maggie, with small movable sweetmeat stalls, which they carry on their backs.  Men with portable stoves too, who always have a cup of tea ready for you for a small coin worth about the twentieth part of a penny.  Tiny-footed women toddling awkwardly along, with children—­also cramp-footed—­toddling awkwardly after them, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their poor little arms stuck out at right angles with their bodies, to help them to keep their balance.  Even the blind beggars, who go along striking on a bell to let people know that they are blind, as otherwise they might be knocked over, even they used to stop and listen to my juggler’s jokes, though they could not see his tricks.