Long Live the King! | Page 7

face. Behind was the Opera, looming and gray. Ahead was - the park.
Note the long allee between rows of trees trimmed to resemble walls of
green in summer, and curiously distorted skeletons in winter; note the
coffee-houses, where young officers in uniforms sat under the trees,
reading the papers, and rising to bow with great clanking and much
ceremony as a gold-wheeled carriage or a pretty girl went by.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto had the fulfillment of a great desire in
his small, active mind. This was nothing less than a ride on the
American scenic railroad, which had secured a concession in a far
corner of the park. Hedwig's lieutenant had described it to him - how
one was taken in a small car to a dizzy height, and then turned loose on
a track which dropped giddily and rose again, which hurled one
through sheet-iron tunnels of incredible blackness, thrust one out over a
gorge, whirled one in mad curves around corners of precipitous heights,
and finally landed one, panting, breathless, shocked, and reeling; but
safe, at the very platform where one had purchased one's ticket three
eternities, which were only minutes, before.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto had put this proposition, like the fig
woman, to Miss Braithwaite. Miss Braithwaite replied with the sad
history of an English child who had clutched at his cap during a crucial
moment on a similar track at the Crystal Palace in London.
"When they picked him up," she finished, "every bone in his body was
broken."

"Every bone?"
"Every bone," said Miss Braithwaite solemnly.
"The little ones in his ears, and all?"
"Every one," said Miss Braithwaite, refusing to weaken.
The Crown Prince had pondered. "He must have felt like jelly," he
remarked, and Miss Braithwaite had dropped the subject.
So now, with freedom and his week's allowance, except the outlay for
the fig woman, in his pocket, Prince Ferdinand William Otto started for
the Land of Desire. The allee was almost deserted. It was the sacred
hour of coffee. The terraces were empty, but from the coffee-houses
along the drive there came a cheerful rattle of cups, a hum of
conversation.
As the early spring twilight fell, the gas-lamps along the allee, always
burning, made a twin row of pale stars ahead. At the end, even as the
wanderer gazed, he saw myriads of tiny red, white, and blue lights,
rising high in the air, outlining the crags and peaks of the sheet-iron
mountain which was his destination. The Land of Desire was very near!
There came to his ears, too, the occasional rumble that told of some
palpitating soul being at that moment hurled and twisted and joyously
thrilled, as per the lieutenant's description.
Now it is a strange thing, but true, that one does not reach the Land of
Desire alone; because the half of pleasure is the sharing of it with
someone else, and the Land of Desire, alone, is not the Land of Desire
at all. Quite suddenly, Prince Ferdinand William Otto discovered that
he was lonely. He sat down on the curb under the gas-lamp and ate the
fig woman's head, taking out the cloves, because he did not like cloves.
At that moment there was a soft whirring off to one side of him, and a
yellow bird, rising and failing erratically on the breeze, careened
suddenly and fell at his feet.

Prince Ferdinand William Otto bent down and picked it up. It was a
small toy aeroplane, with yellow silk planes, guy-ropes of waxed thread,
and a wooden rudder, its motive power vested in a tightly twisted
rubber. One of the wings was bent. Ferdinand William Otto
straightened it, and looked around for the owner.
A small boy was standing under the next gas-lamp. "Gee!" he said in
English. "Did you see it go that time?"
Prince Ferdinand William Otto eyed the stranger. He was about his
own age, and was dressed in a short pair of corduroy trousers, much
bloomed at the knee, a pair of yellow Russia-leather shoes that reached
well to his calves, and, over all, a shaggy white sweater, rolling almost
to his chin. On the very back of his head he had the smallest cap that
Prince Ferdinand William Otto had ever seen.
Now, this was exactly the way in which the Crown Prince had always
wished to dress. He was suddenly conscious of the long trousers on his
own small legs, of the ignominy of his tailless Eton jacket and stiff,
rolling collar, of the crowning disgrace of his derby hat. But the lonely
feeling had gone from him.
"This is the best time for flying," he said, in his perfect English. "All
the exhibition flights are at sundown."
The boy walked slowly over and stood looking down