Free Jim Steinmeyer by The Last Greatest Magician in the World

lifestyle, but he had none of Howard’s personal charms. Harry was Howard without the wealth of experiences, or perspective. But he was also Howard without the contradictions. Harry was simply a tough customer.
    Howard needed just this sort of discipline behind the Great Country Circus, his loose collection of acts that was struggling through Pennsylvania. He also needed quick cash, and Harry brought a pocketful of money to save the day.
    In Williamsport, Pennsylvania, the brothers made arrangements to rent a local tent and drivers. Under the big top the little circus took on a new luster, but rain limited the number of performances, and the local sheriff moved in to attach the circus’s possessions. Harry studied a map. They were midway between New York and Pittsburgh. He knew a nice little dime museum in Pittsburgh, operated by Harry Davis, that just might be looking for a big attraction. The Thurstons dashed to the Western Union office and wired Davis, offering a sale price of $150 a week for their show, promising a collection of marvels, including “the world’s greatest magician,” and concluding, “answer immediately.” Then they returned to the Great Country Circus tent and waited nervously.
    At eight o’clock that night, Davis finally wired his response. “All okay, open Monday.” Fortunately, Harry had saved just enough money for two bottles of whiskey. They got the sheriff good and drunk, then snuck out of the tent with their possessions, running to the train station.
    In Pittsburgh Thurston borrowed a dress suit from John Harris, the treasurer and box office attendant at Harry Davis’s establishment. The show ran for three weeks, but it was a victim of its own success. After a long, hard winter, most of the troupe saw their profitable Pittsburgh appearance as a chance to finally escape, using their profits to run back to other sideshows.
     
     
    BOTH HOWARD AND HARRY had developed their own ways of making money. Howard regularly purchased boxes of cheap jewelry, watches or brooches that were flash-plated with a thin layer of gold. He also purchased one expensive watch—an exact match—made in real gold with a quality movement. He used his skills as a pitchman to lure his customers, and his skills as a magician to make the sale. The buyer examined the quality watch, studied the movement, and admired the gold. Howard invisibly switched it for a cheaper watch—the simple work of some palming—just before the sale. This little con game was especially useful when the brothers were pressed to pay a hotel bill or a fine. Invariably Howard’s “family watch” came out of his pocket as a tear came to his eye. After apparently weighing this painful option, he would finally agree to offer the watch as security on a loan, switching the watch and skipping out of town.
    Howard’s smooth good looks and placid demeanor earned him many female admirers. He cultivated a wardrobe of elegant clothing—silk ties, navy jackets, crisp white shirts, and straw hats—so that he always looked prosperous and desirable. He taught his brother Harry how to “tish” the girls; it seems to be the only sleight of hand that Harry ever learned, his kind of deception. While propositioning a showgirl or dance-hall floozy, Harry would smile, pull a five-dollar bill from his pocket, fold it into a neat bundle, wrap it in a piece of tissue, and then discreetly tuck it beneath the lady’s garter. This little gesture usually earned a special favor. The next morning, the lady discovered that the bill had been switched for a piece of paper. The showgirls in cities like New York or Chicago were already on to this trick, but Howard and Harry discovered that it still worked in Pittsburgh or St. Louis.
    With the Great Country Circus disbanded, Harry had no work, and he returned to the Chicago to search out dime museums. Howard realized that his best prospects were still on the road. Through the fall and winter of 1894, he jumped from one