[Illustration: 9154]
OY was awakened very early the next morning by Caesar Maximilian
Augustus Claudius Smith (called Thomas for short), who remarked with a
haughty air while setting the breakfast things,--
“I don’t suppose you will have me to wait upon you to-morrow morning,
sir.”
“Why not?” inquired Boy.
“I shall very likely have been made King by that time,” remarked the
footman with his nose in the air. “You can still stay at the Palace,
though, if you like.”
“Really!” exclaimed Boy. “Have you been elected then?” he asked,
forgetting that the Election did not take place till two o’clock in the
afternoon.
“Not yet,” admitted the footman, “but I’m pretty sure to be, because of
my name, you know.”
“Smith?” inquired Boy.
“No, the others,” said the footman impatiently. “Cæsar was a king, I’ve
heard, and so was Augustus, so was Maximilian, and so was Claudius, I
believe.”
“No, they were all emperors,” corrected Boy. “Cæsar, Augustus, and
Claudius, were emperors of Rome, and Maximilian was Emperor of Germany.
We heard all about them in our History class last term.”
“Are you sure, sir?” asked the footman mournfully.
“Yes, quite!” replied Boy decidedly.
“Dear me,” cried the poor man, “I’m afraid that I don’t stand quite as
much chance as I thought I did. What a pity! I’ve ordered my crown and
things too,” he continued. “Never mind! perhaps I may be elected
after all. I suppose, sir, if I offered to vote for you, you wouldn’t
vote for me, would you?”
“I don’t see how that would be of much use,” exclaimed Boy.
“Well, every vote helps, you know,” said Cæsar Maximilian Augustus
Claudius Smith (called Thomas for short). “Shall I go and get the
polling papers?”
Boy thought that it couldn’t possibly do much harm, so just to please
him he told the footman that he might go and get them; and when he
returned a few minutes later they were both solemnly filled up and taken
back to the Ballot Box. Then Boy finished his breakfast and started for
a walk.
The streets were filled with excited groups of people discussing their
own prospects of being elected King, and the walls were covered with
posters of all shapes and sizes begging for votes. One enterprising man
was offering _a thousand pounds_ to every one who would vote for him.
“Why, however can he pay them all?” exclaimed Boy to a person in the
street.
“Oh! people are never expected to keep the promises made at elections,”
explained the man. “Now I don’t promise anything at all, but you only
just vote for me and see what _I’ll_ do for you if I’m made King.”
“I can’t,” said Boy. “I’ve already voted.”
“Oh, bother!” cried the man, “you’re no good to me, then,” and he
hurried on to the next person and began to beg for his vote.
Boy was soon surrounded by people bothering him to vote for them and was
quite glad to escape down a by-street where there was scarcely any one
to be seen, and where his attention was attracted by a curious-looking
sign affixed to a house worded like this--
[Illustration: 0157]
“What a funny sign!” thought Boy. “I wonder what it means?” and he was
still wondering when a Butcher’s Bill passed. He was a very tall boy
and carried a butcher’s tray on his shoulder. Of course, he was
whistling--all butcher boys do--but he stopped when he saw Boy and came
up to where he was standing.
“Can you tell me what that means, please?” asked Boy, pointing to the
sign.
“Can’t you read?” asked the Butcher’s Bill.
“Not Greek,” replied Boy. “That is Greek, isn’t it?” he asked; for it
looked to him very much like an inscription that he had once seen carved
over a big building in London, and which his Uncle had told him was
Greek.
“Greek! your grandmother!” exclaimed the Butcher’s Bill rudely. “It’s
Upside Downish.”
“What’s that?” asked Boy.
“I’ll tell you if you promise me your vote,” said the Butcher’s Bill.
“I’m very sorry,” replied Boy, “but I’ve already given it.”
“Then stand on your head and find out for yourself,” cried the rude
Butcher’s Bill, shouldering his tray and walking off again whistling
loudly.
“I wonder what he means?” thought Boy, staring at the letters; he could
make nothing of them, though, and was just going to walk away when he
saw the Advertiser General looking out of one of the windows above the
signboard.
“Come in,” he called. “I want to speak to you very particularly.”
Boy pushed the door open and found some steps inside which led up to a
large studio, in which he found the Advertiser General and the Public
Rhymester.
They both rushed at him as soon as he entered the door and each seized
one of his arms.
“Please promise me your vote,” they both exclaimed in one breath.
“Oh dear!” cried Boy, “I’m quite tired of telling everybody I have
already voted.”
The Advertiser General and the Public Rhymester both looked greatly
disappointed, and each let go of his arm and went back to his work.
“What are you doing, please?” inquired Boy.
“Can’t you see?” replied the Advertiser General snappishly. “We’re
making advertisements. Have you finished that Poem for Watzematta Tea
yet?” he asked of the Public Rhymester.
“Very nearly,” he replied with some confusion, hastily screwing up some
paper which he held in his hands into a ball.
“What’s that?” demanded the Advertiser General; “let me see.”
The Public Rhymester handed him the ball of paper, which the Advertiser
General carefully smoothed out.
“Did any one ever see such rubbish?” he exclaimed after he had read it.
“Why, you’ve mixed yourself up so with the tea that one can’t tell which
is which. Just read this,” and he handed Boy the crumpled pieces of
paper, on which were written the following words:=
`Delicious Watzematta is a very soothing tea,
`And when you’re voting for a King, oh, please remember me.
`It’s cheaper far than other sorts; it’s flavour’s full and free--
`And that I’d make a charming King, I’m sure you’ll all agree.=
`"One cup of Watzematta will equal any three
`Of other kinds; it is so nice--and so am I, you see.
`There never was another King so good as I will be.
`Pour boiling water on it (the tea I mean, not me)."=
“Well, it certainly is rather mixed,” said Boy when he had finished
reading this curious advertisement.
“Oh! I can’t settle down to anything till this Election is over,”
complained the Public Rhymester. “How are you getting on?” he asked,
walking over to where the Advertiser General was painting an enormous
poster. “Why, you are as bad as I am,” he cried. “Look at that!” and
he pointed to a part of the poster on which the Advertiser General had
painted the words:=
``"Use Bluntpoint’s Needles. To be had of all
```respectable kings.”
“Good gracious, I meant drapers, of course,” cried the Advertiser
General, throwing down his brush. “Well, it’s evidently no use trying to
work till after the Election; we are all far too excited.”
“I was going to ask you,” said Boy, “what those words outside this house
meant.”
“Oh!” said the Advertiser General, “that is a very ingenious
advertisement of mine. You see the words are simply turned upside down,
so you have to stand on your head to read them properly. It’s a
capital idea. You see the great thing in advertising is to impress the
advertisement on the public mind, and if one has to stand on his head
the whole of the time he is reading it through, he is not likely to
forget it in a hurry, is he?
[Illustration: 0161]
This was the first advertisement ever written in that way,” and the
Advertiser General brought from a portfolio a large card bearing these
words:
“What _is_ all this nonsense about the Portmanteau?” exclaimed Boy. “I’m
always hearing something or other about it. Whose was it?”
“Ah! it may seem nonsense to you, but I assure you it was a very serious
matter for us at the time,” said the Advertiser General, while the
Public Rhymester nodded his head emphatically.
“You see the King of Limesia and our late sovereign King Robert the
Twentieth were very great friends, and the King of Limesia came to Zum
on a visit. Oh, it was a grand time, I can tell you. The streets were
decorated, and there were speeches and processions, and he was presented
with the freedom of the city in a casket made of solid gingerbread
gilded over so that it looked like real gold, and which he could eat
when he got tired of looking at.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” interrupted Boy. “I have often read
of people being presented with addresses and things in gold caskets,
and I always wondered whatever use they could possibly be to them
afterwards.”
“Well,” continued the Advertiser General, “things went on swimmingly for
a few days till suddenly the King of Limesia’s Portmanteau disappeared
very mysteriously. No one had the slightest idea when, where, or
how. You would never believe the commotion it caused. Both Kings were
furious. King Robert declared that it _must_ and _should_ be found, and
had an organised search made in every house in Zum. Not one was passed
without having every room ransacked. The King of Limesia declared that
he would not remain a single day longer, and went off in a huff, and
altogether there was such a set out as you never saw.” #
“What was there in the Portmanteau?” asked Boy.
“Why, all the King’s clean collars, a new toothbrush, a receipt for
making toffee and lots of things. Well, I had to prepare a special
Poster to be stuck about the town, and by a splendid piece of good
fortune I thought of this system of advertising. It was great success
and caused an enormous sensation. Just fancy seeing the streets full
of people all standing on their heads at the same time reading the
advertisement.
[Illustration: 0163]
The King was delighted and made sure that we should soon find the
Portmanteau. We never did, though, to this day,” said the Advertiser
General mournfully, “and the King of Limesia and our late King never
made up the quarrel about it.”
“Well,” said Boy, “I think it was rather silly to make all that fuss
about an old Portm----”
But before he could finish the sentence cries of “Haste to the poll,”
“Haste to the poll” were heard in the street, and on looking out of the
window they saw people rushing frantically towards the House of Words.
Hastily snatching up their caps the Advertiser General and the Public
Rhymester rushed down the stairs and out into the road, and were soon
lost to sight in the crowd. Boy followed as quickly as he could, for
he wanted to hear who had been elected King. He could not get near the
House of Words because of the crowd, but he could see by a clock in the
street that it was nearly two, so the suspense would soon be over.
“Do you think that I stand any chance, sir?” inquired a
melancholy-looking person standing near Boy.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied he.
“Because if I do I don’t know however I shall be able to afford a crown
and sceptre. Are they very expensive, do you know?”
“Why, I should think they would be provided for you if you were elected
King, wouldn’t they?” asked Boy.
“I’m sure I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t gone in for it at all,” replied
the man; “I’m a shoemaker by trade, and my wife she said to me, ‘What a
fine thing it would be if you were elected King!’ so I voted for myself.
I am rather sorry I did so now, because I don’t know anything about
reigning, and I’m afraid I sha’n’t make a very good King if I am
elected.”
Before Boy could reply there was a great shout, and two o’clock struck
from the clock tower above the House of Words.
“Now we shall soon know,” said Boy; and sure enough in a few moments
the Lord High Adjudicator came to the top of the steps, and with a very
white face announced that everybody had the same number of votes, so
that they were _all_ elected Kings; and it turned out afterwards that
everybody but Boy and Caesar Maximilian Augustus Claudius Smith (called
Thomas for short) had voted for themselves, and as those two had voted
for each other it came to the same thing.
It was very comical to see the airs the people at once began to give
themselves when they realised what had happened, and even the poor
Shoemaker King stared in a haughty way at Boy, and did not deign even to
say good-day as he hurried home to tell his wife the news.
Boy was heartily amused, and the more so when he heard the very
Butcher’s Bill that he had seen in the morning say to another Bill of
about the same age as himself,--
“Look here, Your Majesty, if I have any more of Your Majesty’s cheek
I shall have to punch Your Majesty’s royal nose, and if Your Majesty
wishes to fight, come on.”
To which the other boy, who had previously been a Grocer’s Bill,
replied,--
“Your Majesty may be a King, but you are no gentleman, and I would not
bemean myself by condescending to fight with Your Majesty;” and with a
scornful look the late Grocer’s Bill passed on.
“Well, I expect there will be a pretty muddle presently if all these
people are to be Kings,” thought Boy, quite forgetting that he was a
King himself under these circumstances; and it was not until he had
tried to buy a penny bun, and had been told by the baker’s wife that
“His Majesty had given up business,” that he realised how very awkward
it might become.
[Illustration: 0167]