A NEW STATE OF AFFAIRS.
“OH my! Good gracious me!” exclaimed a voice as we approached the
entrance to the palace and looking up we beheld the Cockatoo perched
on a window-sill. “Just look at these creatures. _What_ a color. Why,
why,” she exclaimed, peering at us closely, “I’m bothered if it isn’t
the Wallypug and the Hatless Man, and the great Mr. A. Fish, Esq. Where
have you been? What did you come back for? What do you want?” she
screamed.
“It’s dud of your busidess,” replied A. Fish, Esq., shortly.
“Oh! isn’t it,” said the Cockatoo furiously. “I’ll soon show you
whether it’s none of my business or not. To begin with, the Wallypug
and the headless traitor”—
“Do you mean me?” I interrupted, “because I am not headless yet, you
know.”
[Illustration: “WHAT A COLOR!” EXCLAIMED THE COCKATOO.]
“Headless, or hatless, it’s all the same,” said the Cockatoo, “you
might as well run about without your head for all the good it is to
you,” she added insolently. “Well you two are escaped prisoners,” she
ran on, “and I shall see that you are locked up again, so there.”
“But it was all a mistake,” said His Majesty mildly.
“What was?” yelled the bird.
“What I said about a ’horse a horse, my kingdom for a horse!’ you
know,” said the Wallypug.
“Why don’t you say what you mean then?” cried the Cockatoo. “Well, I
shall have you locked up anyhow. Here, Crocodile,” she shouted, “just
come and arrest these creatures will you?”
“Shan’t!” replied a voice from within; “who are you ordering about. If
you want them arrested, do it yourself. I’m not going to do as _you_
tell me, so there! besides, all the prisoners have been set free that
Madame sentenced, you know that well enough?”
“Yah! Down with him, down with Crocodiles; down with pale-blue
Wallypugs and hatless men; down with fishes of all sorts. Down with
everybody and everything; down with——.”
We did not stop to hear any more of her ravings, but passed through and
up into the Doctor-in-Law’s old rooms.
We found him looking very weak and ill, but he recognized us all, and
held out his hand to the Wallypug, who told him encouragingly that he
would soon be well again.
“Yes, ad thed I’ll teach you elocutiod for dothig,” promised A. Fish,
Esq.
The Doctor-in-Law smiled faintly, and whispered that what was keeping
him back most was the thought of the heavy doctor’s bill which he would
have to pay when he got better.
The good-natured little Wallypug made him very happy by promising to
pay this amount for him, and we left the little man looking very much
brighter than when we entered.
[Illustration: We found the Doctor-in-Law looking very weak and ill,
but he recognized us all and held out his hand to the Wallypug.—Page
158.
_Wallypugland._]
The rest of the morning was spent in his Majesty’s private apartments,
discussing all sorts of plans for the future, for, as the Wallypug very
properly remarked, now that the Mother-in-Law had gone he should have a
freer hand in the administration of affairs.
A. Fish, Esq., busied himself in preparing an elaborate lecture,
which he said he would deliver in public on the morrow, on the
“Unreasonableness of Misunderstandability,” and which would, he hoped,
clearly explain away the mistake which had been made, in accusing his
Majesty of treason, in connection with his unfortunate recitation of “A
horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!”
While we were thus busily engaged there came an impatient
tap-tap-tapping at the door, and on opening it we beheld the Crow
looking more disreputably untidy than ever. He carried a large bundle
of papers and a quill pen. “Ahem!” he began importantly, “I call on
behalf of the _Daily Whyer_ a new paper which I have just established,
and which I am happy to say has already an enormous circulation in Why.
It is very cheap (four copies for a penny), and contains an enormous
amount of totally unreliable information; besides which there is a page
devoted to domestic matters, highly interesting to ladies, and includes
receipts for artistically furnishing your house with old tea chests
and soap boxes, painted with enamel and draped with art muslin; there
are also several poems weekly on the subject of ‘Baby’s Little Socks,’
which are immensely popular with some people, here is one of them,” he
cried, turning to the back page of his paper, a copy of which he had
with him.
“Oh! the baby’s little socks,
Darling baby’s little socks;
When the kettle’s softly steaming,
When the firelight’s glow is gleaming,
And I’m sitting idly dreaming,
Whisper gently, ‘baby’s socks.’
“Oh the darling little socks;
Baby’s _baby’s_ little socks;
Toys that baby fingers scatter,
Little feet that pitter-patter,
Tittle tongues—but there—no matter,
Let’s get back to baby’s socks.”
“There,” he concluded triumphantly, “what do you think of that?”
“Well, I don’t wish to be rude,” I remarked, “but I certainly think
it’s the greatest rubbish I’ve ever heard in all my life.”
“Rubbish!” he exclaimed, “Why all the ladies who read the _Daily Whyer_
think it _beautiful_. I have to get the same gentleman to write verses
like that nearly every day.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” I replied, “that a man writes such twaddle as
that.”
“Oh! you’re jealous, that’s what’s the matter with you. A man write
them? of course he does.”
“And do you pay him for these precious contributions,” I exclaimed in
surprise.
“I _promise_ to pay him ever so much a year,” said the Crow,
“but—er—ahem—I have a very bad memory. I have several contributors
whom I pay on the same system, it’s a very _cheap_ way,” he sniffled.
“I’ve copied it from a contemporary.”
“Well, we’re very busy just dow,” said A. Fish, Esq., “would you bind
telling us your busidess ad goig, because we wandt to ged to work
agaid.”
“Oh! to tell you the truth,” said the Crow, “I wanted to know if the
Wallypug would let me print an interview with him in to-morrow’s paper.
You have just returned from Wer-har-wei, I believe, haven’t you; I was
sitting on the signal post at the station just now and saw you arrive.
I think my readers would be very interested in hearing your impressions
of the country.”
I took his Majesty aside and pointed out to him that very possibly an
interview with him appearing in the paper would have a good effect on
his people, and he could use it as a means of advertising the reforms
he intended making in the government of the land; and his Majesty
agreeing with me on the point, he seated himself comfortably in his own
particular chair, and the Crow, perching on the back of another, the
interview began.
“Let’s see,” said the Crow, making a great spluttering with his pen,
which was cross-nibbed and broken. “When were you born?”
“Well, really,” said his Majesty, “I, er—was so young at the time that
I scarcely remember.”
“Oh, well, I’ll put it down as Y. D. 987; that will do as well as any
other date.”
“Why Y. D.?” I inquired, curiously.
“Year of disgrace,” was the prompt reply. “Bless me! this must be a
Post Office pen,” he went on, as the pen scattered the ink about in all
directions. “They are always bad, you know.” Then, having asked the
Wallypug no end of questions, not only about our journey, but on all
sorts of private matters also, the wretched-looking bird gathered up
his papers, which were covered with unintelligible blots and scratches
and scattered in all parts of the room, and, tucking them under his
wing, departed, to have the matter set up in print.
[Illustration: “THIS MUST BE A POST OFFICE PEN,” SAID THE CROW.]