CHAPTER XI.

"Ask me not in mournful numbersWhat o'clock a boy has dreams;Sleep is real, sleep is earnest,Hash is seldom what it seems."

And a great gray-bearded eel wagged his head solemnly at Billy from a few feet off the shore.

"Did you speak?" said Billy.

"No, I sang, which is worse," said the eel sadly.

"I thought it was you."

"It wasn't you, it was I," said the eel. "What a sad world it is, to be sure!"

"How do you mean?" asked Billy.

"I don't mean, I swim, and that's a terrible bore."

"I think swimming is lots of fun," said Billy.

"Not when you do it for a living; it stops being fun when you have to."

"I suppose so," said Billy thoughtfully; "but then, you see, I've never had to do it for a living."

"Then don't ever take it up. I've been at it all my life, and I'm very tired; why, I've almost forgotten how to climb trees. What's your name?"

"Billy Bounce."

"So you're Billy Bounce. I'm Ne'er Do Eel," and though he smiled, the eel looked very, very sly.

"How do you do?" said Billy politely.

"I don't do; that's the reason I'm called Ne'er Do Eel."

"Oh!" said Billy, "then how don't you do?"

"Pretty badly, I don't thank you. But come, you must hear me sing; this song was discomposed by the whistling Buoy, set to music by Sand Bars, and dedicated to me," and balancing himself on a large wave, the eel began to sing in a sad voice.

THE SONG OF THE NE'ER DO EEL.

The Ne'er Do Eel raised his dreamy eyeAnd said, with a ponderous, weary sigh,I'd really, yes, really try to try,But I'm tired to-day—let's go and lieIn the cool sweet shade of an apple pie,And think of the which and what and why.Oh! why is the whatness of which and when;If then were now what would be then?Because and but—oh! what's the use."To-morrow will do," is my excuse.

"How's that?" said Ne'er Do Eel when he had finished.

"Very pretty," said Billy, "but is it—is it very sensible?"

"I really don't know—nobody ever understands it, so of course it must be very fine."

"I suppose so," said Billy, wondering if Ne'er Do Eel was quite in his right mind.

"Come in, the water's fine," called a funny, bristly little fellow popping his head up beside Ne'er Do Eel.

"No, thank you," said Billy, not wishing to join company with such a prickly looking individual.

"Aw! come on—see, it's only so deep," and he held up one hand.

"You're treading water," said Billy.

"How did you guess it?" asked the Sea Urchin.

"I can see your feet."

"So can I see your feet, but you're not treading water."

"That has nothing to do with it," said Billy.

"Just what I'm trying to prove to you," said the Urchin. "Are you coming in, or shall I have to come out and get you?"

"Neither," said Billy, jumping up very, very hard, because he knew it would take a long leap to carry him over the sea. "Good-bye."

"I suppose they are harmless," said Billy to himself, "but I'm glad enough to be away from them—that eel looks like a slippery old fellow and the Urchin has a bad face."

Up, up, up he went, floated forward quite a distance, stopped just a second, and then began to fall.

"I believe I am going to make it," he began, and then looked beneath him. Alas! poor Billy, the shore was yet far distant, and he knew that he was bound to fall into the sea.

How he did kick and wave his arms! He even tried to swim through the air, but, though this helped him a little, it didn't carry him far enough forward to reach the shore.

"Thank goodness I have on my rubber suit; I can't sink anyway," said he. And splash he hit the water, where he bobbed up and down like a cork.

But his troubles were not yet over, for he was horrified to see Ne'er Do Eel and the Sea Urchin swimming along at his side.

"So you decided to drop in on us after all," said the Urchin.

"Have you chosen a life on the bouncing wave as a profession?" asked Ne'er Do Eel, "in spite of my warning that you would do well to bid farewell to well-faring if you chose sea-faring?"

"Yelp, yelp!" said Barker, climbing up onto Billy's shoulder, where he stood shivering miserably.

"What's that thing?" asked the Sea Urchin.

"My dog," said Billy.

"Don't tell me that's a dog fish," said Ne'er Do Eel, "because I'll never believe you."

"You don't have to," answered Billy, "because he is not a dog fish, he's a dog."

"Oh, you mean a fish dog! You're sure he's not a bird dog—a flying fish dog, you know?"

"No, just a plain dog."

"He's plain enough, goodness knows—but a dog—humph!"

"Who ever heard of a dog without fins?" said the urchin; "why, it's ridiculous."

"I expect there are lots of things you never heard of." It made Billy angry to have his word doubted, especially when there was Barker to prove them true.

"Ridiculous," said Ne'er Do Eel. "How can we help seeing everything in the sea? He who sees seas sees everything in season."

Billy didn't think this worth answering, so he redoubled his efforts to reach the shore. My! how he did make the water boil, dashing spray way over his head, and making poor Barker blink with the water he dashed into his eyes.

"With a little practice you might learn to swim," said the Urchin, "but you make lots of fuss in the water."

"So would you on dry land," panted Billy.

"But we wouldn't be so silly as to go on dry land," said the eel.

"I suppose that's as much as to say that it's silly of me to come into the sea."

"Take it or leave it—if the white cap fits you don't put it on," said the Urchin, turning a somersault in the water.

"Where are you going?" asked Ne'er Do Eel.

"Yes, you seem in a great hurry," said the Urchin.

"I'm going ashore as fast as I can," said Billy.

"That's your first guess—try another," said the eel, sticking his face up into Billy's.

"I don't guess it, I know it," answered Billy, striving to keep his courage up.

"No, is the right answer," said the Sea Urchin.

"Why shouldn't I go ashore?"

"Just because," replied the Eel, "oh! gracious what a sad world it is—here's a boy that thinks he knows."

"But how are you going to prevent it?" said Billy. "I'm not afraid of you."

"We will prevent it this way," said Ne'er Do Eel, winding his tail around Billy's legs.

"And this way," said the Sea Urchin, pricking a hole in Billy's suit with one of his bristles.

Poor Billy felt himself getting thinner and thinner as the air bubbled out of the suit. And while he knew that he could swim and so keep afloat a while longer, he was well aware that in a very few minutes all would be over and he would go down, down, down to the bottom of the sea.

Barker seemed to know it too, for he whined piteously.

"Now tell me that there is not just one more fish in the sea that never was caught," said Ne'er Do Eel triumphantly.

Billy didn't answer, for he knew that he must save his breath. But when he saw a plank floating just within reach he could not resist a feeble "Hurrah."

It required but a second for him to throw his arms over it and cling on for dear life.

"That's what comes of having planked white fish for dinner," said Ne'er Do Eel.

The Sea Urchin, seeing what Billy had done, swam madly about trying to find another opportunity for stinging him with his bristles, but was unable to make any impression through his wet clothes.

Ne'er Do Eel thrashed the water into a perfect foam in his efforts to drag Billy and the plank down, but barring giving Billy an occasional ducking and making Barker yelp with fright he could do nothing.

Suddenly Billy felt the plank sink deeper into the water so that his chin was barely above the surface. At the same moment a voice said "Umberufen."

And there balancing himself on the plank stood Umberufen.

"Get off, you're sinking us!" cried Billy.

"You called me," said Umberufen.

"I didn't."

"You touched wood and I'm sure it's very inconsiderate of you to call me way out here to sea."

"I don't want you," said Billy.

"Then you shouldn't have called me. Goodness knows I'm not here because I want to be—I can feel myself warping already."

"Do go away," said Billy; "can't you see it's all I can do to keep afloat?"

"I'll help you," said Umberufen.

"How?"

"Get off, you're sinking us," cried Billy.—Page 134.

"I don't know. Who is your friend with a face like a hair-brush?"

"That's Sea Urchin, and he is trying to drown me."

"You must not do that, you know," said Umberufen, "it's very wrong." Then turning to Billy he whispered, "Leave him to me; I'll give him a good talking to."

"That's all you can do," said Billy desperately—"talk, talk, talk! I don't want words, I want help."

"Come down, come down. Oh! why be so obstinate?" cried the Eel, lashing the water.

"Gentlemen," said Umberufen, sticking one hand in the breast of his coat and bowing very low—almost too low, for just at that moment the plank twisted and he came very near going overboard—"gentlemen, you are doing very, very wrong."

"Bravo!" cried the Sea Urchin, "thank you for the compliment."

"Stop it and get away," cried Billy.

"Ingrate," cried Umberufen, "can't you see that already I have won their hearts—did you not hear the applause?"

"Of course I did," said Billy, "but it's only because they want to keep you here so that they can pull me down. But if you really want to help me, for goodness' sake pump me up and stop the leak in my suit."

"I wish I could," said Umberufen; "but I am not a mechanic, I am a thinker."

"You're a nuisance——" but just at that minute Billy's feet touched bottom. Looking up he found that in the excitement of the events he had drifted within a few feet of shore. Splash, dash, curl bing! and a wave had carried him well ashore. Ne'er Do Eel let go his hold when he saw the case was hopeless, and he and Sea Urchin bobbed about on the waves, shaking their fists and gnashing their teeth in despair at having lost him.

"Ugh!" cried Umberufen, "I told you I'd get wet helping you," and there stood the miserable little man soaked through and through.

"I warned you," said Billy.

"I—I—I kn-n-ow you-u-u d-d-did," said Umberufen, his teeth chattering, "but I stood to my post like a man—that's what comes of being brave and brainy. Good-bye. I'mgoing home to change my clothes," and away he went.

"Good-bye, Ne'er Do Eel and Sea Urchin," called Billy, running up the beach. "Death on the bounding wave isn't as easy as you thought, is it?"

Poor Billy was in despair over his punctured suit. It is a good thing he had no mirror to see how like a broken toy balloon he looked, or he would have felt even worse. He tried pumping it up with his hot air pump, but it was no use—sizz-z, the air came right out of the hole. "If I had just thought to bring some bicycle tyre tape," he said, examining the puncture carefully, "or if I had some gum."

When he said this Barker ran up to him, and laying his head in his lap, looked up at him knowingly. "What is it, old doggie—do you feel sorry too? I'm sure I don't know what is to become of us; we shall have to walk now. Of course we still have the Singing Tree. That's so, the tree—do you suppose you could bark up any other kind of tree? A gum tree—but how?" Barker nodded his head and wagged his tail, as much as to say, "Of course I can; just try me."

"I have it!" cried Billy, and tearing in two pieces the pocket-handkerchief that Gehsundheit had given him, he carefully wrapped and tied one half of it over Barker's lower set of teeth, and the other half over his upper set. It was a tedious operation, but finally Barker stood before him with his teeth all hidden and nothing but his gums exposed. Barker didn't mind, indeed he seemed to know just what Billy was about, and capered and danced with glee.

"Now we will see what a gum bark will grow into," said Billy, quickly digging a hole. Over to it ran Barker and stood holding his nose down—pinch. "Wow—wow," went the dog, a muffled bark, for all the world like a toothless old man trying to talk. In a jiffy the dirt was shoveled in and up sprang—a gum tree. Yes, there instead of the Singing Tree stood a gum tree, its branches laden with "Yucatan," and "Pepsin," and "Tutti Frutti."

"Hurrah!" cried Billy, shaking down package after package of gum. And popping a great piece into his mouth he chewed away for dear life. Quickly he spread the soft, sticky mass over a piece of cloth snipped from the lining of his jacket and pressed the whole thing over the puncture. It stuck as close and as tight as wall-paper, and Billy knew that he was indeed repaired.

"Chug-ff—chug-ff—chug-ff—squee-ee!" went the hot air pump, and there stood Billy as round and fat as ever with never a leak in his suit.

"Thank you, Barker, old boy," said Billy, patting Barker's head and taking the handkerchief out of his mouth.

"And now we must be off." So saying he tucked the Dog under his arm and jumped up and away.

Far, far away they sailed. The gum seemed to have given the suit new life—and why shouldn't magic gum improve a magic suit? It seemed to Billy that this jump was by far the longest he had ever taken.

Indeed, he felt so very happy that he commenced to sing, "Over the Hills and Far Away"—but alas! for Billy this was a fatal step. He had hardly gotten any further in his song than "far away," when he saw flying to meet him several shaggy bears.

He saw flying to meet him several shaggy bears.—Page 141.

"I suppose I'm in for it now," he said to himself; "they look fierce enough to be some more of Nickel Plate's friends. I wonder if I shall ever get to Bogie Man's house, anyway."

"Gr-r-f gr-r-r!" growled the foremost bear when they got in speaking distance. "Gr-r-r-r gr-r-r-rf!" growled the other bears.

But true to his habit, Billy put on a bold front, and smiling politely said, "Good afternoon."

"Afternoon," said the first bear gruffly. And then all the bears surrounded Billy and flew along by his side.

Billy was really very much disturbed by this, but turning to the largest bear, he said:

"I see that you were bound in the opposite direction to me—and though I appreciate your company I wouldn't detain you for the world."

"Mind your own business!" growled the bear.

"I'm trying to," said Billy. "Excuse me, I'veseen many dancing bears, but I've never until now laid my eyes on flying ones."

"We're Bugbears, if that's what you want to know," said the bear in a surly voice.

"Thank you," said Billy, smiling in hopes that by being very, very polite and pleasant himself he could improve their temper.

"Save your thanks, they are not wanted."

"My goodness, you're as cross as——"

"A bear," interrupted the Big Bear, "exactly, and I'm proud of it. What's the good of being polite—tell the truth, I say, no matter whom it hurts."

"I'm sure that the truth is always best," said Billy.

"It's not," said the bear; "never tell it if it doesn't hurt. Under those circumstances, I say, tell a bear faced lie."

"You haven't a very sweet disposition, have you?"

"No, thank goodness, I haven't—what would a Bug Bear do with a sweet disposition unless he could eat it?"

"I don't know," said Billy.

"Of course you don't—nobody ever said you did—boys don't know anything."

"Here we are," cried the Little Bug Bear. And sure enough, they were standing in the strangest of strange looking towns. Every house and every building was covered with an enormous derby hat, while the windows and doors were so arranged that at a little distance they looked like the eyes and nose and mouth of a face.

"Where are we?" asked Billy, looking about him in surprise.

"Derby Town—where else do you think?" said Big Bug Bear.

"I didn't know," said Billy.

"For goodness' sake, say something original," said the bear crossly. "What an idiot you are, to be sure!"

Billy ignored this remark. He had had some experience with cross people in his messenger service—people who were cross for no earthly reason but that he was a little boy—and he had always found it better to say as little as possible when they bullied him. Nevertheless it made him very, very uncomfortable, and of course the more uncomfortable he got the more blunders he made.

"Can't you stand up—you're all feet, Ideclare," said Big Bug Bear, when Billy stumbled over a stone in the path. With that he gave him a push that nearly sent him on his face. "Stand up, I tell you," said the bear, catching him by the arm and jerking him back so that he nearly fell on his back this time.

"Excuse me, sir—I didn't mean to," said Billy, almost ready to cry.

"Didn't mean to, didn't mean to—don't tell me that; you did it on purpose, anyone can see that with half an eye."

And with that all the Bug Bears took turns in pulling and jerking him about.

Billy was afraid to resent it, for their teeth looked very white and very sharp, and their claws looked very long, but he kept his eyes open for some means of escape. After a while, though, this exercise seemed to put them in a little better temper—just as it does lots of human bears—and they allowed Billy to walk along with only an occasional cuff or jerk.

"What are those?" Billy finally ventured to ask, pointing to a row of tree-like things along the sidewalk.

"Hat trees, silly," said one of the bears. "Can't you see the hat on the top?"

"Oh!" said Billy, "they're very funny, aren't they?"

"Not a bit funny," said Big Bug Bear, "and if you had to listen to their bands all night, you wouldn't think so either."

"What kind of bands?" asked Billy.

The Hat Tree.

"Hat bands of course—they're brimful of horrid noises."

"Oh!" said Billy, and relapsed into silence.

By this time they had walked quite a distance, and though Billy had kept his eyes open for a chance to escape, one or another of the bears had hold of his arm all of the time.

"I suppose you know why we have captured you?" said Big Bug Bear, finally.

"Because you don't want me to find Bogie Man, I expect," said Billy.

"For once in your life you are correct—little credit to you, though."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why don't you want me to find him?"

"He's our cousin for one thing, and for another thing, it's our business to keep people from doing anything they want to."

"And you expect to keep me from it," asked Billy.

"Indeed we do," said Big Bug Bear.

"How?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Now stop your talking."

Billy shut his lips tight and walked along with a sinking heart.

"Isn't he a sulky brat?" said Little Bug Bear, "pouting along and not saying a word."

"But you told me to stop talking," said Billy.

"Don't be impertinent," said Big Bug Bear, shaking him. "If you can't speak politely to your elders you needn't speak at all."

My, my, how Billy did hate the Bug Bears for that! Pinching and beating, anything he had been through could not have hurt him worsethan this treatment. The Bug Bears seemed to know it, for they bullied him back and forth, and forth and back until he thought he would go crazy.

"Here we are at last," said Big Bug Bear, stopping in front of a prison-like Derby House.

"Yes, and if this boy hadn't lagged so on the way, we'd have been here an hour ago," said another Bug Bear crossly. "Get in with you." And giving Billy a push through the door, he and the rest followed close after.

Indoors they were greeted by another Bug Bear. Greeted is hardly the word, because that seems to mean some kind of a smile or a pleasant hand shake. As it was, the Bug Bear got up sulkily from a corner where he had been lying and grunted by way of "how do you do."

"We've got Billy Bounce," said Big Bug Bear.

"Huh! at last—it took you long enough, goodness knows," said the first speaker surlily.

"We didn't come here to talk," said Big Bug Bear angrily. "Get to work."

"What are you going to do to me—kill me?" asked Billy.

"No—not if you do what you're told," said Little Bug Bear.

"Worse than that," said Big Bug Bear.

"We're going to operate on your eyes," said the owner of the place.

"Blind me?" cried Billy. "Oh! don't blind me."

"Wait and see," growled Big Bug Bear.

"Oh! but I'd rather you killed me than put my eyes out—how could I see to get around?"

"You'll be able to see to get around," said Little Bug Bear, "but you won't be able to see Bogie Man."

"But I must—I have a message for him. Oh! good Mr. Bug Bear, oh! kind Mr. Bug Bear, don't do that."

"Tell him what it is, Photographer, and stop his noise," said Big Bug Bear, giving Billy a shake, "and listen quietly, Billy Bounce, or I'll give you a beating."

"I'm going to take a picture," said the Photographer Bug Bear.

"My picture?" asked Billy relieved.

"Your picture—your picture," growled the Photographer, "do you think I have nothingbetter to do than take ugly fat boys' pictures—huh!"

"Then whose?"

"Big Bug Bear's, of course."

Billy looked around the room for a camera, but could see nothing but bare walls. Not even a photograph was to be seen, much less the large glass cases of brides and grooms and military men and little boys and girls with sand buckets and shovels in their hands.

"Have you a camera?" asked he.

"You're the camera; what else did you think?" grunted the Photographer.

"Iam," exclaimed Billy in surprise.

"I said you, yes. Now stand up, will you—there," and the Photographer stood him up in front of him, holding in his hand a great big round black cap, such as photographers put over the lens of a camera.

"Sit down, Big Bug Bear, in that chair in front of Billy Bounce, please. So—that's it, head a little higher, look at the camera—that's it," and the Photographer threw a black cloth over Billy's head and turned it here and there, just as if he were focusing a camera.

"But what is it for?" asked Billy.

Little Bug Bear spoke up. Indeed, he seemed to be the kindest one of all of them, perhaps because he was the youngest.

"Were going to photograph Big Bug Bear on your eyes so hereafter you'll never be able to see anything without a Bug Bear in it. And as Bug Bears keep people from succeeding in everything they attempt, you will never succeed in finding Bogie Man. There now you have it, and I hope you will stay quiet."

"Oh! but that will be terrible," said Billy.

"Of course it will, but we don't care; be still," growled the Photographer.

"Big Bug Bear, move your right hand a little more to the left, please—that's better—now look unpleasant—good." At this Big Bug Bear opened his mouth very wide and showed his teeth—when plump, one of his teeth, which must have been very loose, fell out of his mouth and squashed on the floor.

"Why," exclaimed Billy, "his teeth are dough." Then turning to the Photographer he looked in his mouth, "and yours"—then looking at the others, "and yours—and yours—all of you." Thenreaching out suddenly he caught hold of the Photographer's paw—"and your claws are rubber—hurrah!! hurrah!! I don't fear you now."

The Bug Bears were all so startled that they did not make a move and before they knew it Billy had pulled out his air-pump and was beating them all about the head—all but Little Bug Bear, who scuttled out of the door at the first move Billy made.

"Oh! oh! oh! ouch! ouch! ouch!" cried the Bug Bears, running about and trying to get to the door, "let us go—let us go." And in a minute Billy was all alone.

"So that's all Bug Bears amount to," he said; "they will never frighten me again."

And walking leisurely out of the door he jumped up and away from Derby Town and the Bug Bears forever.

The next time Billy alighted he examined his suit with great care, for fear his adventures with the Bug Bears had strained the patch over the puncture, but to his great delight he found that it held as tightly as ever.

As it happened, he had stopped on a dusty highway just outside the gates of a city. We will call it a city because Billy later learned that its inhabitants did so, but to Billy's gaze it seemed but a collection of the poorest huts.

The Herald.

And as he stood punching and pulling and examining his suit a party of horsemen and horsewomen rode up. A few feet in advance of the rest of the party rode a tattered and torn individual on a lame horse. In his hand he carried a battered old fish horn on which he occasionally blew a feeble blast; this he followed by calling in a voice loud enough to make up for the wheeziness of his horn,

"Out of the way, out of the way O—the King rides."

"What if he does?" said Billy to himself. "I do too when I can catch behind a street car."

"Out of the way," cried the man, pulling up his horse, "out of the way, boy."

"I'm not in the way, there's plenty of room for you to pass, and I don't want to climb down into the ditch," said Billy.

"But the King passes—out of the way."

"Well, I'll be in that town by the time he comes along."

"He is here, varlet."

"Where?"

"That noble looking gentleman in richraiment—true, a trifle faded—but rich—he that rides alone."

"Do you mean the one on the blind mare?"

"True, the mare is blind, but that is her misfortune not her fault—she comes of fine stock. Yes, that is our great and noble Comic Paper Irish King O'Fudge."

"A Comic Paper Irish King," said Billy. "Is he Irish?"

"No," said the Horn Man, "not really Irish, he's the kind of Irish they have in Comic Papers."

O'Fudge, the Comic Paper Irish King.

Billy was bewildered—he lookedfrom the King to his company, from the company to the Horn Man and then back again to the King. Such a faded, worn, torn, uncut, unshaven and unkempt crowd he had never seen outside of a company of beggars. And such nags as they bestrode. The lame, the halt, and the blind were all represented among their horses, while donkeys and mules in all states of decrepitude carried others.

"So that is the King?" said Billy.

"Ay! the King and his retinue of noble ladies and gentlemen—out of the way."

Here the King spoke, "Phwat detains our noble silf Herald?"

"And so this crazy quilt is the Herald, is it?" said Billy to himself and true enough when he examined the man's tattered clothes more closely he saw that he wore a much dilapidated Herald's Tabard.

"A base born fat boy, your serene Highness, who refuses to out of the way, though I have outed him several times."

"I can't, yourHonor—" began Billy.

"Treason," cried a voice, "he called his Highness your Honor."

"That's Lèse Majesty," whispered the Herald to Billy.

"Oh! is that his name?"—then turning to the King he bowed low and said, "I beg your pardon, Your Lazy Majesty."

"Treason!" cried the company of men, spurring their horses into a rapid walk. "He called his Majesty lazy."

"I thought that was his name," said Billy. "Mr. Herald here told me it was."

"I didn't," cried the Herald in consternation.

"Silence," said the King, riding up. "I will hear this case, and bye, if it is true that you hov miscalled me, it's to de lowest dongin wid yez!"

"Indeed your Serene, Contented, Happy, Highness, Majesty O'Fudge," said Billy, giving him all the titles he could remember and a few extra by way of good measure. "I meant no disrespect."

"Hold," interrupted the King; "before we go further we must call out the gyard to gyard this bye—General Swash Buckler, do your dooty, no matter how pleasant it may be."

"Ay! Ay! also I salute your Majesty," saida fierce looking old man, saluting and riding a few paces to the rear. Then saluting the air, he gravely said:

"Colonel Swash Buckler—you have heard the orders, execute them." Then turning his horse around, he saluted the spot where he had just been sitting. "Very good, General, I will do so at once." Again turning his horse, he saluted the air, saying, "Captain Swash Buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them." Again he turned his horse and saluted the spot where he had just been sitting, saying, "Very good, Colonel, I will do so at once." This time he looked down at the ground and said, "Lieutenant Swash Buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them." Then climbing down to the ground he saluted the saddle, "Very good, Captain, I will do so at once." He quickly turned on his heel and called, "Sergeant Swash Buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them," and saluting he said respectfully, "Very good, Lieutenant, I will do so at once." Then in a hoarse commanding voice he called, "Private Swash Buckler, you have heard the orders—execute them." This time he saluted cringingly."Very good, Sergeant, I will do so at once," and marched solemnly to Billy's side, halted and saluted, "It is done."

"How's that for quick work, me bye, and what do ye think of me ar-rmy?" said King O'Fudge proudly.

"Oh! is that your army—yourentirearmy?" asked Billy, who had watched the proceedings with surprise and amusement.

"It is," said the King. "Sometimes it's me sitting ar-my, but now it's me standing ar-m-y. There has never yet been mutiny or insubordination—it stands as wan man by its King. It can move rapidly and without much noise, and above all things it is most economical to maintain."

"I'm sure it's very fine, sir—I mean Your Majesty," said Billy.

"And now, bye, why did ye call me, the Irish King O'Fudge, a Lazy Majesty?"

"I meant nothing wrong, sir, but when I said, your Honor, Mr. Herald here whispered to me that's Lèse Majesty."

"So that's the way the wind blows—Herald, explain."

The Herald bent one knee, "Your Highness, I but explained to the fat boy that he had committed Lèse Majesty, which means that he had insulted you—it's Latin."

"It's Latin, is it?" cried the King. "Latin, you say? How dare you talk Latin before me when Brogue is the court language? I fine you a month's pay."

"But, your Majesty's pardon, I have received no pay for two years."

"Sure," said the King, "and your salary is $3.75 a month."

"Yes, sire," said the Herald, smiling, because he thought the King was going to give him all his back pay. "Yes, sire, forgive me for reminding you."

"You are forgiven," said the King, "and now, Gyard, search him and take from his pockets $3.75."

"But your Majesty," began the Herald.

"Enough, I can't remit the fine, and if you have the money you must pay it."

In a jiffy Private Swash Buckler had fished $3.75 in nickels and dimes from the Herald's pockets and handed it to the King.

"And now me vartuous subjects, give three cheers for your noble and generous king, and we will enter the City."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the people—even the Herald gave three feeble toots on his horn.

"Good-bye," said Billy, hoping that by this gentle hint they would understand that he did not desire their company any further. Indeed he felt uneasy about the few coppers in his own pockets in the presence of such a free handed King.

"Not so fast, me young friend," said the King; "you must come with us."

"Truly, your Majesty, I haven't the time," said Billy.

"I didn't ask you for the time," said the King, "so whether you have it or haven't it you'll have to take it—forward!"

And Billy found himself in the grasp of Private Swash Buckler, and being led in the direction of the City.

They hadn't far to go, and in spite of their naturally slow progress with such sorry steeds, Billy soon found himself within the gates.

And oh! what a place. Dirty, miry streets, pigs every place, tumbledown, leaky roofed houses and ragged people. And the palace—well, Billy would never in the world have known it for a palace if the King hadn't told him it was. It was simply a larger, dirtier, more tumbledown house than any of the others, with more and fatter pigs in the front yard.

"Bring in the prisoner, Gyard," said the King, dismounting and picking his way up the tottering steps.

"Prisoner," cried Billy, "what have I done to be made a prisoner?"

"I don't know yet," said the King, "but I will find something. We haven't had a prisoner for years, and now that I've got one I'm not going to let him go again for such a simple reason as his having done nothing wrong—am I right, ladies and gentlemen?"

"Always right—never left," cried the retinue, who were now entering the palace.

"I thought you would agree with me," said the King, "but sometimes I'm left—it's a poor ruler that doesn't work both ways—come in."

Billy was hustled into the palace, which he found hung with torn and faded tapestry. The floor had not been swept or scrubbed for years, and there did not seem to be a solid four legged chair in the room with the exception perhaps of the throne, which was built entirely of Irish potatoes.

"And now," said the King, putting his crown rakishly on one side of his head, "now I'm prepared to open court. First, has any one here any petitions—in writing?"

When he said this an old man hobbled up, and kneeling with many crackings of joints before the King, laid a paper at his feet.

"What is it?" asked the King.

"A request, sire, that my daughter——"

"Refused," said O'Fudge. "Who's next, please—leave the papers."

"But, sire——"

"I positively must refuse, but I thank you for the petition; me crown is a bit too large for comfort," and folding the paper into a strip he placed it in his crown, which he put on with much satisfaction.

"So that's over with—bring the bye before me."

"He is here, sire," said Private Swash Buckler, leading Billy before the throne. "Kneel, boy."

"What's your name?" said the King.

"Billy Bounce," said Billy.

And what a shout and roar went up from the company—even the King jumped to his feet in his excitement and threw his crown into the air.

"Billy Bounce!" they cried, "Billy Bounce—we've caught Billy Bounce!"

"What a good day's work!" cried the King—"$3.75 from the Herald and $5.99 from Bumbus for catching Billy Bounce."

"But, your Majesty—" began Billy.

"Don't talk to me," interrupted the King, "unless you can offer $6.00 to be set free."

"Alas! I haven't that much," said Billy.

"Too bad—too bad," said O'Fudge; "and now I suppose I'll have to off with your head."

"Oh! sir—please, please don't!" cried Billy, struggling with Swash Buckler.

"Don't lose your head," said the King, "because I want to have it chopped off."

"But, sir—" began Billy.

"Sire," and a gray-bearded man, wearing a tall pointed cap and a long, flowing gown covered with the signs of the Zodiac, walked to the King's side and whispered in his ear.

"Are ye sure?" whispered O'Fudge.

"Certain, your Majesty," answered the man.

"The Court Astrologer," announced the King to the people, "tells me that Billy Bounce's star predicts that anyone who kills him will himself be hanged."

"Then I'll be hanged if I do!" cried the executioner, throwing down his meat cleaver.

Back to Index Next