The Crown Prince was just a trifle dazzled by the brilliance of his
success. He paused for one breathless moment under the porte-cochere of
the opera house; then he took a long breath and turned to the left.
For he knew that at the right, just around the corner; were the royal
carriages, with his own drawn up before the door, and Beppo and Hans
erect on the box, their haughty noses red in the wind, for the early
spring air was biting.
So he turned to the left, and was at once swallowed up in the street
crowd. It seemed very strange to him. Not that he was unaccustomed to
crowds. Had he not, that very Christmas, gone shopping in the city,
accompanied only by one of his tutors and Miss Braithwaite, and bought
for his grandfather, the King, a burnt-wood box, which might hold either
neckties or gloves, and for his cousins silver photograph frames?
But this was different, and for a rather peculiar reason. Prince
Ferdinand William Otto had never seen the back of a crowd! The public
was always lined up, facing him, smiling and bowing and God-blessing
him. Small wonder he thought of most of his future subjects as being
much like the ship in the opera, meant only to be viewed from the front.
Also, it was surprising to see how stiff and straight their backs were.
Prince Ferdinand William Otto had never known that backs could be so
rigid. Those with which he was familiar had a way of drooping forward
from the middle of the spine up. It was most interesting.
The next hour was full of remarkable things. For one, he dodged behind
a street-car and was almost run over by a taxicab. The policeman on the
corner came out, and taking Ferdinand William Otto by the shoulder, gave
him a talking-to and a shaking. Ferdinand William Otto was furious, but
policy kept him silent; which proves conclusively that the Crown Prince
had not only initiative--witness his flight--but self-control and
diplomacy. Lucky country, to have in prospect such a king!
But even royalty has its weaknesses. At the next corner Ferdinand
William Otto stopped and invested part of his allowance in the forbidden
fig lady, with arms and legs of dates, and eyes of cloves. He had wanted
one of these ever since he could remember, but Miss Braithwaite had
sternly refused to authorize the purchase. In fact, she had had one of
the dates placed under a microscope, and had shown His Royal Highness a
number of interesting and highly active creatures who made their homes
therein.
His Royal Highness recalled all this with great distinctness, and,
immediately dismissing it from his mind, ate the legs and arms of the
fig woman with enjoyment. Which--not the eating of the legs and arms, of
course, but to be able to dismiss what is unpleasant--is another highly
desirable royal trait.
So far his movements had been swift and entirely objective. But success
rather went to his head. He had never been out alone before. Even at
the summer palace there were always tutors, or Miss Braithwaite, or
an aide-de-camp, or something. He hesitated, took out his small
handkerchief, dusted his shoes with it, and then wiped his 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 at him. “You ought
to see it fly from the top of Pike’s Peak!” he remarked. He had caught
sight of the despised derby, and his eyes widened, but with instinctive
good-breeding he ignored it. “That’s Pike’s Peak up there.”
He indicated the very top of the Land of Desire. The Prince stared up.
“How does one get up?” he queried.
“Ladders. My father’s the manager. He lets me up sometimes.”
Prince Ferdinand William Otto stared with new awe at the boy. He found
the fact much more remarkable than if the stranger had stated that his
father was the King of England. Kings were, as you may say, directly in
Prince Ferdinand William Otto’s line, but scenic railroads--
“I had thought of taking a journey on it,” he said, after a second’s
reflection. “Do you think your father will sell me a ticket?”
“Billy Grimm will. I’ll go with you.”
The Prince rose with alacrity. Then he stopped. He must, of course, ask
the strange boy to be his guest. But two tickets! Perhaps his allowance
was not sufficient.
“I must see first how much it costs,” he said with dignity.
The other boy laughed. “Oh, gee! You come with me. It won’t cost
anything,” he said, and led the way toward the towering lights.
For Bobby Thorpe to bring a small boy to ride with him was an everyday
affair. Billy Grimm, at the ticket-window, hardly glanced at the boy who
stood, trembling with anticipation, in the shadow of the booth.
The car came, and they climbed in. Perhaps, as they moved off, Prince
Ferdinand William Otto had a qualm, occasioned by the remembrance of the
English child who had met an untimely end; but if he did, he pluckily
hid it.
“Put your lid on the floor of the car,” said Bobby Thorpe’ depositing
his own atom there. “Father says, if you do that; you’re perfectly
safe.”
Prince Ferdinand William Otto divined that this referred to his hat, and
drew a small breath of relief. And then they were off, up an endless,
clicking roadway, where at the top the car hung for a breathless second
over the gulf below; then, fairly launched, out on a trestle, with the
city far beneath them, and only the red, white, and blue lights for
company; and into a tunnel, filled with roaring noises and swift
moving shadows. Then came the end of all things a flying leap down, a
heart-breaking, delirious thrill, an upward sweep just as the strain was
too great for endurance.
“Isn’t it bully?” shouted the American boy against the onrush of the
wind.
“Fine!” shrieked His Royal Highness, and braced himself for another dip
into the gulf.
Above the roaring of the wind in their ears, neither child had heard
the flying feet of a dozen horses coming down the allee. They never knew
that a hatless young lieutenant, white-lipped with fear, had checked his
horse to its haunches at the ticket-booth, and demanded to know who was
in the Land of Desire.
“Only the son of the manager, and a boy friend of his,” replied Billy
Grimm, in what he called the lingo of the country. “What’s wrong? Lost
anybody?”
But Hedwig’s lieutenant had wheeled his horse without a word, and,
jumping him aver the hedge of the allee, was off in a despairing search
of the outskirts of the park, followed by his cavalrymen.
As the last horse leaped the hedge and disappeared, the car came to a
stop at the platform. Quivering, Prince Ferdinand William Otto reached
down for the despised hat.
“Would you like to go around again?” asked Bobby, quite casually.
His Highness gasped with joy. “If--if you would be so kind!” he said.
And at the lordly wave of Bobby’s hand, the car moved on.