"Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church."

     "Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help US--can't we lick the other crowd then?"

     "How you going to get them?"

     "I don't know. How do THEY get them?"

     "Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man."

     "Who makes them tear around so?"