Truxton King. George Barr McCutcheon

The prospect was alluring. The pool, the trickling rivulets, the mossy banks, the dense shadows: it was maddening to think he could not enter!

      "I wouldn't be in there a minute," he argued. "And I might catch a glimpse of a dream-lady. Now, I say, Hobbs, here's a low place. I could jump—"

      "Mr. King, if you do that I am ruined forever. I am trusted by the steward. He would cut off all my privileges—" Hobbs could go no further. He was prematurely aghast. Something told him that Mr. King would hop over the wall.

      "Just this once, Hobbs," pleaded his charge. "No one will know."

      "For the love of Moses, sir, I—" Hobbs began to wail. Then he groaned in dismal horror. King had lightly vaulted the wall and was grinning back at him from the sacred precincts—from the playground of princesses.

      "Go and report me, Hobbs, there's a good fellow. Tell the guards I wouldn't obey. That will let you out, my boy, and I'll do the rest. For Heaven's sake, Hobbs, don't burst! You'll explode sure if you hold in like that much longer. I'll be back in a minute."

      He strode off across the bright green turf toward the source of all this enchantment, leaving poor Mr. Hobbs braced against the wall, weak-kneed and helpless. If he heard the frantic, though subdued, whistles and the agonized "hi!" of the man from Cook's a minute or two later, he gave no heed to the warning. A glimpse behind might have shown him the error of his ways, reflected in the disappearance of Hobbs's head below the top of the wall. But he was looking ahead, drinking in the forbidden beauties of this fascinating little nook of nature.

      Never in all his wanderings had he looked upon a more inviting spot than this. He came to the edge of the deep blue pool, above which could be seen the entrance to the Grotto. Little rivulets danced down through the crannies in the rocks and leaped joyously into the tree-shaded pool. Below and to the right were the famed Basins of Venus, shimmering in the sunlight, flanked by trees and banks of the softest green. On their surface swam the great black swans he had heard so much about. Through a wide rift in the trees he could see the great, grey Castle, half a mile away, towering against the dense greens of the nearby mountain. The picture took his breath away. He forgot Hobbs. He forgot that he was; trespassing. Here, at last, was the Graustark he had seen in his dreams, had come to feel in his imagination.

      Regardless of surroundings or consequences, he sat down upon the nearest stone bench, and removed his hat. He was hot and tired and the air was cool. He would drink it in as if it were an ambrosial nectar in—and, moreover, he would also enjoy a cigarette. Carefully he refrained from throwing the burnt-out match into the pool below: even such as he could feel that it might be desecration. As he leaned back with a sigh of exquisite ease and a splendid exhalation of Turkish smoke, a small, imperious voice from somewhere behind broke in upon his primary reflections.

      "What are you doing in here?" demanded the voice.

      Truxton, conscious of guilt, whirled with as much consternation as if he had been accosted by a voice of thunder. He beheld a very small boy standing at the top of the knoll above him, not thirty feet away. His face was quite as dirty as any small boy's should be at that time of day, and his curly brown hair looked as if it had not been combed since the day before. His firm little legs, in half hose and presumably white knickers, were spread apart and his hands were in his pockets.

King recognised him at once, and looked about uneasily for the attendants whom he knew should be near. It is safe to say that he came to his feet and bowed deeply, even in humility.

      "I am resting, your Highness," he said meekly.

      "Don't you know any better than to come in here?" demanded the Prince. Truxton turned very red.

      "I am sorry. I'll go at once."

      "Oh, I'm not going to put you out," hastily exclaimed the Prince, coming down the slope. "But you are old enough to know better. The guards might shoot you if they caught you here." He came quite close to the trespasser. King saw the scratch on his nose. "Oh, I know you now. You are the gentleman who picked up my crop yesterday. You are an American." A friendly smile illumined his face.

      "Yes, a lonely American," with an attempt at the pathetic.

      "Where's your home at?"

      "New York. Quite a distance from here."

      "You ever been in Central Park?"

      "A thousand times. It isn't as nice as this one."

      "It's got amilies—no, I don't mean that," supplemented the Prince, flushing painfully. "I mean—an-i-muls," very deliberately. "Our park has no elephunts or taggers. When I get big I'm going to set out a few in the park. They'll grow, all right."

      "I've shot elephants and tigers in the jungle," said Truxton. "I tell you they're no fun when they get after you, wild. If I were you I'd set 'em out in cages."

      "P'raps I will." The Prince seemed very thoughtful.

      "Won't you sit down, your Highness?"

      The youngster looked cautiously about. "Say, do you ever go fishing?" he demanded eagerly.

      "Occasionally."

      "You won't give me away, will you?" with a warning frown. "Don't you tell Jacob Fraasch. He's the steward. I—I know a fine place to fish. Would you mind coming along? Look out, please! You're awful big and they'll see you. I don't know what they'd do to us if they ketched us. It would be dreadful. Would you mind sneaking, mister? Make yourself little. Right up this way."

      The Prince led the way up the bank, followed by the amused American, who stooped so admirably that the boy, looking back, whispered that it was "just fine." At the top of the knoll, the Prince turned into a little shrub-lined path leading down to the banks of the pool almost directly below the rocky face of the grotto.

      "Don't be afraid," he whispered to his new friend. "It ain't very deep, if you should slip in. But you'd scare the fish away. Gee, it's a great place to catch 'em. They're all red, too. D'you ever see red fish?"

      Truxton started. This was no place for him! The Prince had a right to poach on his own preserves, but a grown man to be caught in the act of landing the royal goldfish was not to be thought of. He hung back.

      "I'm afraid I won't have time, your Highness. A friend is waiting for me back there. He—"

      "It's right here," pleaded the Prince. "Please stop a moment. I—I don't know how to put the bait on the pin. I just want to catch a couple. They won't bite unless there's worms on the hook. I tried 'em. Look at 'em! Goodness, there's lots of 'em. Nobody can see us here. Please, mister, fix a worm for me."

      The man sat down behind a bush and laughed joyously. The eager, appealing look in the lad's eyes went to his heart. What was a goldfish or two? A fish has no feeling—not even a goldfish. There was no resisting the boyish eagerness.

      "Why, you're a real boy, after all. I thought being a prince might have spoiled you," he said.

      "Uncle Jack says I can always be a prince, but I'll soon get over being a boy," said Prince Bobby sagely. "You will fix it, won't you?"

      King nodded, conscienceless now. The Prince scurried behind a big rock and reappeared at once with a willow branch from the end of which dangled a piece of thread. A bent pin occupied the chief end in view. He unceremoniously shoved the branch into the hands of his confederate, and then produced from one of his pockets a silver cigarette box, which he gingerly opened to reveal to the gaze a conglomerate mass of angle worms and grubs.

      "A fellow gets awful dirty digging for worms, doesn't he?" he pronounced.

      "I should say so," agreed the big boy. "Whose cigarette case is this?"

      "Uncle Caspar's—I mean Count Halfont's. He's got another, so he won't miss this one. I'm going to leave some worms in it when I put it back in his desk. He'll think the fairies did it. Do you believe in fairies?"

      "Certainly, Peter," said Truxton, engaged in impaling a stubborn worm.

      "My