The Prince and Betty | Page 7

going to send for. I got it all from General Poineau. He's a royalist.
He'll be tickled to pieces when Johnny comes marching home again.
Old man Poineau told me all about it. The Prince married a girl called
Westley, and then he was killed in an automobile accident, and his
widow went back to America with the kid, to live with her brother.
Poineau says he could lay his hand on him any time he pleased."
"I hope you won't do anything rash, dear," said his sister comfortably.
"I'm sure we don't want any horrid revolution here, with people
shooting and stabbing each other."
"Revolution?" cried Mr. Scobell. "Revolution! Well, I should say nix!
Revolution nothing. I'm the man with the big stick in Mervo. Pretty
near every adult on this island is dependent on my Casino for his
weekly envelope, and what I say goes--without argument. I want a
prince, so I gotta have a prince, and if any gazook makes a noise like a
man with a grouch, he'll find himself fired."
Miss Scobell turned to her paper again.
"Very well, dear," she said. "Just as you please. I'm sure you know
best."
"Sure!" said her brother. "You're a good guesser. I'll go and beat up old
man Poineau right away."

CHAPTER III
JOHN
Ten days after Mr. Scobell's visit to General Poineau, John, Prince of
Mervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, was
strolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of that
outpost of civilization, Jersey City. He was a big young man, tall and

large of limb. His shoulders especially were of the massive type
expressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing line
on the gridiron. He looked like one of nature's center-rushes, and had,
indeed, played in that position for Harvard during two strenuous
seasons. His face wore an expression of invincible good-humor. He had
a wide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes. One felt
that he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if they
did not like him.
As he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious. Sherlock
Holmes--and possibly even Doctor Watson--would have deduced that
he had something on his conscience.
At the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed to
hesitate. Then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, he went
in and pressed the button of the elevator.
Leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, and
pushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, "Westley,
Martin & Co."
A stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers,
stopped in astonishment.
"Hello, John Maude!" he cried.
The young man grinned.
"Say, where have you been? The old man's been as mad as a hornet
since he found you had quit without leave. He was asking for you just
now."
"I guess I'm up against it," admitted John cheerfully.
"Where did you go yesterday?"
John put the thing to him candidly, as man to man.
"See here, Spiller, suppose you got up one day and found it was a

perfectly bully morning, and remembered that the Giants were playing
the Athletics, and looked at your mail, and saw that someone had sent
you a pass for the game--"
"Were you at the ball-game? You've got the nerve! Didn't you know
there would be trouble?"
"Old man," said John frankly, "I could no more have turned down that
pass-- Oh, well, what's the use? It was just great. I suppose I'd better
tackle the boss now. It's got to be done."
It was not a task to which many would have looked forward. Most of
those who came into contact with Andrew Westley were afraid of him.
He was a capable rather than a lovable man, and too self-controlled to
be quite human. There was no recoil in him, no reaction after anger, as
there would have been in a hotter-tempered man. He thought before he
acted, but, when he acted, never yielded a step.
John, in all the years of their connection, had never been able to make
anything of him. At first, he had been prepared to like him, as he liked
nearly everybody. But Mr. Westley had discouraged all advances, and,
as time went by, his nephew had come to look on him as something
apart from the rest of the world, one of those things which no fellow
could understand.
On Mr. Westley's side, there was something to be said in extenuation of
his attitude. John reminded him of his father, and he had hated the late
Prince of Mervo with a cold hatred that had for a time been the ruling