Truxton King. George Barr McCutcheon

the red and black uniformed soldiers were not the only persons on review that balmy day in July. Truxton King had his first glimpse of the nobility of Graustark. He changed his mind about going to Vienna on the Saturday express. A goodly number of men before him had altered their humble plans for the same reason, I am reliably informed.

      Mr. King saw the court in all its glory, scattered along the shady Castle Avenue—in carriages, in traps, in motors and in the saddle. His brain whirled and his heart leaped under the pressure of a new-found interest in life. The unexpected oasis loomed up before his eyes just as he was abandoning all hope in the unprofitable desert of Romance. He saw green trees and sparkling rivulets, and he sighed with a new, strange content. No, on second thoughts, he would not go to Vienna. He would stay in Edelweiss. He was a disciple of Micawber; and he was so much younger and fresher than that distinguished gentleman, that perhaps he was justified in believing that, in his case, something was bound to "turn up."

      If Truxton King had given up in disgust and fled to Vienna, this tale would never have come to light. Instead of being the lively narrative of a young gentleman's adventures in far-away Graustark, it might have become a tale of the smart set in New York—for, as you know, we are bound by tradition to follow the trail laid down by our hero, no matter which way he elects to fare. Somewhat dismayed by his narrow escape, he confided to his friend from Cook's that he could never have forgiven himself if he had adhered to his resolution to leave on the following day.

      "I didn't know you'd changed your mind, sir," remarked Mr. Hobbs in surprise.

      "Of course you didn't know it," said Truxton. "How could you? I've just changed it, this instant. I didn't know it myself two minutes ago. No, sir, Hobbs—or is it Dobbs? Thanks—no, sir, I'm going to stop here for a—well, a week or two. Where the dickens do these people keep themselves? I haven't seen 'em before."

      "Oh, they are the nobility—the swells. They don't hang around the streets like tourists and rubbernecks, sir," in plain disgust.

      "I thought you were an Englishman," observed King, with a quizzical smile.

      "I am, sir. I can't help saying rubbernecks, sir, though it's a shocking word. It's the only name for them, sir. That's what the little Prince calls them, too. You see, it's one form of amusement they provide for him, and I am supposed to help it along as much as possible. Mr. Tullis takes him out in the avenue whenever I've got a party in hand. I telephone up to the Castle that I've got a crowd and then I drive 'em out to the Park here. The Prince says he just loves to watch the rubbernecks go by. It's great fun, sir, for the little lad. He never misses a party, and you can believe it or not, he has told me so himself. Yes, sir, the Prince has had more than one word with me—from time to time." King looked at the little man's reddish face and saw therein the signs of exaltation indigenous to a land imperial.

      He hesitated for an instant and then remarked, with a mean impulse to spoil Hobbs's glorification: "I have dined with the President of the United States."

      Hobbs was politely unimpressed. "I've no doubt, sir," he said. "I daresay it was an excellent dinner."

      King blinked his eyes and then turned them upon the passing show. He was coming to understand the real difference between men.

      "I say, who is that just passing—the lady in the victoria?" he asked abruptly.

      "That is the Countess Marlanx."

      "Whew! I thought she was the queen!"

      Hobbs went into details concerning the beautiful Countess. During the hour and a half of display he pointed out to King all of the great personages, giving a Baedeker-like account of their doings from childhood up, quite satisfying that gentleman's curiosity and involving his cupidity at the same time.

      When, at last, the show was over, Truxton and the voluble little interpreter, whom he had employed for the occasion, strolled leisurely back to the heart of the town. Something had come over King, changing the quaint old city from a prosaic collection of shops and thoroughfares into a veritable playground for Cinderellas and Prince Charmings. The women, to his startled imagination, had been suddenly transformed from lackadaisical drudges into radiant personages at whose feet it would be a pleasure to fall, in whose defence it would be divine to serve; the men were the cavaliers that had called to him from the pages of chivalrous tales, ever since the days of his childhood. Here were knights and ladies such as he had dreamed of and despaired of ever seeing outside his dreams.

      Hobbs was telling him how every one struggled to provide amusement for the little Prince at whose court these almost mythological beings bent the knee. "Every few days they have a royal troupe of acrobats in the Castle grounds. Next week Tantora's big circus is to give a private performance for him. There are Marionettes and Punch and Judy shows, and all the doings of the Grand Grignol are beautifully imitated. The royal band plays every afternoon, and at night some one tells him stories of the valorous men who occupied the throne before him. He rides, plays baseball and cricket, swims, goes shooting—and, you may take it from me, sir, he is already enjoying fencing lessons with Colonel Quinnox, chief of the Castle guard. Mr. Tullis, the American, has charge of his—you might say, his education and entertainment. They want to make of him a very wonderful Prince. So they are starting at the bottom. He's quite a wonderful little chap. What say, sir?"

      "I was just going to ask if you know anything about a young woman who occasionally tends shop for William Spantz, the armourer."

      Hobbs looked interested. "She's quite a beauty, sir, I give you my word."

      "I know that, Hobbs. But who is she?"

      "I really can't say, sir. She's his niece, I've heard. Been here a little over a month. I think she's from Warsaw."

      "Well, I'll say good-bye here. If you've nothing on for to-morrow we'll visit the Castle grounds and—ahem!—take a look about the place. Come to the hotel early. I'm going over to the gun-shop. So long!" As he crossed the square, his mind full of the beautiful women he had seen, he was saying to himself in a wild strain of exhilaration: "I'll bet my head that girl isn't the nobody she's setting herself up to be. She looks like these I've just seen. She's got the marks of a lady. You can't fool me. I'm going to find out who she is and—well, maybe it won't be so dull here, after all. It looks better every minute."

      He was whistling gaily as he entered the little shop, ready to give a cheery greeting to old Spantz and to make him a temporising offer for the broadsword. But it was not Spantz who stood behind the little counter. Truxton flushed hotly and jerked off his hat. The girl smiled.

      "I beg pardon," he exclaimed. "I—I'm looking for Mr. Spantz—I—"

      "He is out. Will you wait? He will return in a very few minutes." Her voice was clear and low, her accent charming. The smile in her eyes somehow struck him as sad, even fleeting in its attempt at mirth. As she spoke, it disappeared altogether and an almost sombre expression came into her face.

      "Thanks. I'll—wait," he said, suddenly embarrassed. She turned to the window, resuming the wistful, preoccupied gaze down the avenue. He made pretence of inspecting the wares on the opposite wall, but covertly watched her out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps, calculated he, if she were attired in the gown of one of those fashionables she might rank with the noblest of them in beauty and delicacy. Her dark little head was carried with all the serene pride of a lady of quality; her features were clear cut, mobile, and absolutely flawless. He was sure of that: his sly analysis was not as casual as one might suppose under the circumstances. As a matter of fact, he found himself having what he afterward called "a very good look at her." She seemed to have forgotten his presence. The longer he looked at the delicate profile, the more fully was he convinced that she was not all that she pretended. He experienced a thrill of hope. If she wasn't what she pretended to be, then surely she must be what he wanted her to be—a lady of quality. In that case there was a mystery. The thought restored his temerity.

      "Beg pardon," he said, politely sauntering up to the little counter. He noted that she was taller than he had thought, and slender. She started and turned toward him with a quick, diffident smile, her dark eyes filling with an unspoken apology. "I wanted to have another look at the broadsword there. May