The Crown Prince is in a very awkward predicament. He has driven his
ball into a deep sand-pit from which a very clever professional golfer
might perhaps extricate himself by a powerful stroke with a niblick. But
young William is not a professional, and indeed knows nothing about the
game. So he takes his driver and his other wooden clubs, and smashes
them all, with much bad language, while he whacks at the ball, which
only buries itself deeper in the sand. He is pondering what to do next.
There is, however, only one thing to do. He must take up his ball and
lose the hole. The real players on his side must be disgusted at being
saddled with such a partner. But what is to be done when a fool is born
a war-lord by right of primogeniture? In a few years, in the course of
nature, this fortunate youth will be the Supreme War-Lord himself; it
will be his business to "stand in shining armour" by some luckless ally
who has been selected to pick a quarrel for Germany's benefit, and to
shake a "mailed fist" in the face of a trembling world. That will be a
spectacle for gods and men. But perhaps something will happen instead.