Free Pyg by Russell Potter Page A

particular, we invited the Ladies to attend,
experience having shown that they were more suggestible to our Routines, as well as more readily Impressed with the results. A modicum of Shrieking and Fainting does wonders for a show, my Master
was wont to say, and there was some truth in this. And so, after our regular sequence of spellings-out of where we were, who we were, and answers to the shouted Queries of this or that Gentleman at
the back of the Hall (they were, as usual, loud, and drunk, and were thus served with Comic answers), Mr Bisset enquired of a small group of middle-aged women, who were seated by arrangement with
the Proprietor in a small Loge quite near the stage, whether they would Approach and see whether the Sapient Pig could see their inmost thoughts.
    The key to this act was that, well in advance of the invitation, my Master had secured some little information about each of the Ladies in question. This had, for a time, been Sam’s
job: he would present them with complimentary tickets to the very best Seats, and conduct them himself, all the while chatting merrily, and picking up sundry small details. Through this, and by
using a series of seemingly innocent questions (‘Will your husband be joining you tonight, Madam?’), he determined which were married, which widowed, the names of their children and
countless other trifles, all of which he duly delivered to Mr Bisset. Then, well before the performance, we would go over the ‘thoughts’ we were to ‘read’, cueing them to
each by the order in which my Master would ask them their questions. There was some little chance of variation, or of one of the subjects insisting on putting their own Queries to me, at
which he trusted to his usual set of silent cues, or—and this only as a last resort—to my ability, which he now knew all too well, to answer on my own. This last he thought most risky,
and forbade me to improvise, save upon a certain special Signal, and of course I was loath to incur his Displeasure.
    The moment having arrived, three Ladies were shown to seats upon the Stage, amidst much crinkling of dresses and fluttering of fans; although they were all of a settled age—perhaps thirty,
perhaps forty—they were as animated and exaggeratedly Demure as Schoolgirls , and cast their eyes at me as though they had never seen such a thing as a Pig in all their lives. The first
two were easily handled. Number One, a widow, enquired whether I could tell the name of her deceased Husband, which of course I managed without any trouble, along with the particulars of his Trade,
and identifying a Watch as his. Number Two, who was in fact the Wife of one of the Proprietor’s near relations, was more than delighted to hear of her husband’s merits, the Names of her
Children, and even her pet Cockatoo . Number Three, I thought, might be some trouble: she was the quietest of the lot, and blushed—though whether with pleasure or embarrassment I could
not say—at each of the answers we gave to the ladies before her. Her jaw seemed clenched with some determination, and her eyes glittered like little stones; she joined in neither the laughter
nor the applause of her Companions. When at last her turn came, she blushed still more deeply, and for a long time appeared to be almost unable to Speak , though several lines of questioning
were suggested to her.
    At last, by a visible effort overcoming her trepidation, she burst forth.
    ‘Is it really true that your Pig can read minds?’ (This to Mr Bisset).
    ‘Madam, I can assure you, he has done so on Hundreds of occasions, without Error, and without causing his subjects the least Distress of any Kind,’ was his reply.
    She grappled inwardly with this. ‘Very well, then. I should like to know whether my Husband has been Faithful to me!’
    This was impossible. In the absence of the Husband, it was quite unclear whose Mind I was supposed to read. And yet I could readily perceive—as could, I am