The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett

all that was ever known really. And that last part might only be a sort of story made up by somebody. But I believe it myself.”

      The Rat had listened with burning eyes. He had sat biting his finger-nails, as was a trick of his when he was excited or angry.

      “Tell you what!” he exclaimed suddenly. “This was what happened. It was some of the Maranovitch fellows that tried to kill him. They meant to kill his father and make their own man king, and they knew the people wouldn’t stand it if young Ivor was alive. They just stabbed him in the back, the fiends! I dare say they heard the old shepherd coming, and left him for dead and ran.”

      “Right, oh! That was it!” the lads agreed. “Yer right there, Rat!”

      “When he got well,” The Rat went on feverishly, still biting his nails, “he couldn’t go back. He was only a boy. The other fellow had been crowned, and his followers felt strong because they’d just conquered the country. He could have done nothing without an army, and he was too young to raise one. Perhaps he thought he’d wait till he was old enough to know what to do. I dare say he went away and had to work for his living as if he’d never been a prince at all. Then perhaps sometime he married somebody and had a son, and told him as a secret who he was and all about Samavia.” The Rat began to look vengeful. “If I’d bin him I’d have told him not to forget what the Maranovitch had done to me. I’d have told him that if I couldn’t get back the throne, he must see what he could do when he grew to be a man. And I’d have made him swear, if he got it back, to take it out of them or their children or their children’s children in torture and killing. I’d have made him swear not to leave a Maranovitch alive. And I’d have told him that, if he couldn’t do it in his life, he must pass the oath on to his son and his son’s son, as long as there was a Fedorovitch on earth. Wouldn’t you?” he demanded hotly of Marco.

      Marco’s blood was also hot, but it was a different kind of blood, and he had talked too much to a very sane man.

      “No,” he said slowly. “What would have been the use? It wouldn’t have done Samavia any good, and it wouldn’t have done him any good to torture and kill people. Better keep them alive and make them do things for the country. If you’re a patriot, you think of the country.” He wanted to add “That’s what my father says,” but he did not.

      “Torture ’em first and then attend to the country,” snapped The Rat. “What would you have told your son if you’d been Ivor?”

      “I’d have told him to learn everything about Samavia—and all the things kings have to know—and study things about laws and other countries—and about keeping silent—and about governing himself as if he were a general commanding soldiers in battle—so that he would never do anything he did not mean to do or could be ashamed of doing after it was over. And I’d have asked him to tell his son’s sons to tell their sons to learn the same things. So, you see, however long the time was, there would always be a king getting ready for Samavia—when Samavia really wanted him. And he would be a real king.”

      He stopped himself suddenly and looked at the staring semicircle.

      “I didn’t make that up myself,” he said. “I have heard a man who reads and knows things say it. I believe the Lost Prince would have had the same thoughts. If he had, and told them to his son, there has been a line of kings in training for Samavia for five hundred years, and perhaps one is walking about the streets of Vienna, or Budapest, or Paris, or London now, and he’d be ready if the people found out about him and called him.”

      “Wisht they would!” some one yelled.

      “It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it,” The Rat communed with himself as it were, “that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown. I wonder if it would make a chap look different?”

      He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to Marco:

      “But he’d be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is your name?”

      “Marco Loristan. What’s yours? It isn’t The Rat really.”

      “It’s Jem Ratcliffe. That’s pretty near. Where do you live?”

      “No. 7 Philibert Place.”

      “This club is a soldiers’ club,” said The Rat. “It’s called the Squad. I’m the captain. ’Tention, you fellows! Let’s show him.”

      The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision.

      “Form in line!” ordered The Rat.

      They did it at once, and held their backs and legs straight and their heads up amazingly well. Each had seized one of the sticks which had been stacked together like guns.

      The Rat himself sat up straight on his platform. There was actually something military in the bearing of his lean body. His voice lost its squeak and its sharpness became commanding.

      He put the dozen lads through the drill as if he had been a smart young officer. And the drill itself was prompt and smart enough to have done credit to practiced soldiers in barracks. It made Marco involuntarily stand very straight himself, and watch with surprised interest.

      “That’s good!” he exclaimed when it was at an end. “How did you learn that?”

      The Rat made a savage gesture.

      “If I’d had legs to stand on, I’d have been a soldier!” he said. “I’d have enlisted in any regiment that would take me. I don’t care for anything else.”

      Suddenly his face changed, and he shouted a command to his followers.

      “Turn your backs!” he ordered.

      And they did turn their backs and looked through the railings of the old churchyard. Marco saw that they were obeying an order which was not new to them. The Rat had thrown his arm up over his eyes and covered them. He held it there for several moments, as if he did not want to be seen. Marco turned his back as the rest had done. All at once he understood that, though The Rat was not crying, yet he was feeling something which another boy would possibly have broken down under.

      “All right!” he shouted presently, and dropped his ragged-sleeved arm and sat up straight again.

      “I want to go to war!” he said hoarsely. “I want to fight! I want to lead a lot of men into battle! And I haven’t got any legs. Sometimes it takes the pluck out of me.”

      “You’ve not grown up yet!” said Marco. “You might get strong. No one knows what is going to happen. How did you learn to drill the club?”

      “I hang about barracks. I watch and listen. I follow soldiers. If I could get books, I’d read about wars. I can’t go to libraries as you can. I can do nothing but scuffle about like a rat.”

      “I can take you to some libraries,” said Marco. “There are places where boys can get in. And I can get some papers from my father.”

      “Can you?” said The Rat. “Do you want to join the club?”

      “Yes!” Marco answered. “I’ll speak to my father about it.”

      He said it because the hungry longing for companionship in his own mind had found a sort of response in the queer hungry look in The Rat’s eyes. He wanted to see him again. Strange creature as he was, there was attraction in him. Scuffling about on his low wheeled platform, he had drawn this group of rough lads to him and made himself their commander. They obeyed him; they listened to his stories and harangues about war and soldiering; they let him drill them and give them orders. Marco knew that, when he told his father about him, he would be interested. The boy wanted to hear what Loristan would say.

      “I’m going home now,” he said. “If you’re going to be here tomorrow, I will try to come.”

      “We