The Greatest Adventure Books for Children. Люси Мод Монтгомери

      "I said 'devoirs'!" returned the kinglet, turning upon him in anger.

      "We are late because we did not get here sooner," said the Awkward; "and we could not get here sooner because we were late."

      "So!" shrieked his Majesty, with blazing eyes. "Now by my halidom—" he paused suddenly, and turned to the fat man, prodding him so fiercely that he jumped several feet into the air. "Is 'halidom' the right word, Nebbie?"

      "Sure," said the fat man, nodding emphatically.

      "What does it mean?" asked the kinglet.

      "What does halidom mean?"

      "Yes."

      "Why, a halidom is a halidom," said the fat man, thoughtfully; "and belongs to kings."

      "But what is it?" persisted the kinglet, impatiently.

      "It's a—a—a sort of a royal prerogative, and is usually painted red," returned the fat man, and immediately resumed his seat and closed his eyes again.

      The kinglet sighed, and turned anew to the Failings.

      "Let me see," he remarked; "where was I?"

      "You were by your halidom, your Majesty," suggested the Blunderer.

      "Oh, yes." Again the long freckled face took on a frown. "By my halidom, churl—" He stopped to glance at the fat man.

      "Churl is all right," mumbled Nebbie, without opening his eyes.

      "By my halidom, churl, you shall either swallow my sceptre or die the death!"

      "What death?" asked the Blunderer, trembling.

      "The one that makes people dead," replied the kinglet, sternly. "Choose, then, varlet—" ("Varlet is good," said Nebbie, quickly, to avoid a thrust) "whether to swallow my sceptre or die the death!"

      The Blunderer glanced at the sceptre, the jewelled ball of which was nearly as large as his head.

      "I'll swallow the sceptre," he said.

      "Good," cried the kinglet, and held it toward him.

      "But not now," added the Blunderer, hastily; "I'll take my time about it. You didn't say when, you know."

      The kinglet turned red with rage.

      "Now, by the royal Juggernaut of Jowl—" he began.

      "If I should swallow it now," continued the Blunderer, calmly, "you would cease to be a kinglet; for a kinglet without a sceptre is nothing but a flibberjig."

      "What!" shrieked his Majesty, jabbing the fat man furiously.

      "That's right," declared Nebbie, groaning and rubbing his fat side dolefully. "A kinglet without a sceptre is a flibberjig, and I'll be black and blue by to-morrow morning!"

      "Well," said his Majesty, after considering the matter, "I forbid you, Sir Blunderer, to swallow my sceptre until I give you leave."

      Then his eye fell upon John Dough and Chick, who were standing at one side of the Failings, and immediately the little kinglet looked surprised, and then curious, and then annoyed. But perhaps the annoyed look was because Chick laughed in the royal face in a way that was certainly disrespectful, and even John Dough didn't look at all humble.

      "Here, you Chick; behave yourself," commanded the kinglet.

      "I won't," said Chick, pouting two pretty lips.

      "Well, this kingdom existed at one time without an Incubator Baby, and I believe we could spare you now. I'll have your saucy head cut off," declared the kinglet.

      "I dare you!" said Chick, making a face.

      "There's a nice child, I must say!" retorted the kinglet, scowling. "But what can we expect of a baby that has no parents and no proper bringing-up? Bah! I'm ashamed of you, Chick!"

      "Don't you dare say anything against my Incubator!" cried Chick, angrily. "I guess I've had as good bringing-up as you have, you disagreeable kinglet, you!"

      His Majesty was at first about to retort with equal anger; but he suddenly changed his mind and turned to John Dough.

      "Who are you, stranger?" he asked. "And why are you wearing the Blunderer's armor?"

      So much disrespect had been shown this kinglet by his subjects that John was about to reply lightly to these questions; but to his surprise Chick grasped his hand and whispered to him to make a low bow and to be very careful what he said. So the gingerbread man stepped forward and addressed his Majesty with great ceremony.

      "Oh, most puissant and serene kinglet!" he began; "I am called John Dough, because I am made of gingerbread; and I came to your Isle because I could not help it."

      The kinglet looked upon the stranger with a kindly expression.

      "'Puissant and serene'!" he murmured. "Evidently, John Dough, you are a person of wit and intelligence, such as are most welcome to the Isle of Phreex. Kneel thou at my feet."

      John knelt, as commanded, and the kinglet at once dealt him a sharp blow upon the Blunderer's helmet with the heavy end of the royal sceptre. It dented in the steel plate, and would have crushed the gingerbread man's head had it not been so well protected by the helmet.

      "I dub you Knight of Phreex," said his Majesty. "Rise, Sir John Dough—villain no longer, but noble and favored among my subjects!"

      John stood up and bowed, although he was slightly dazed by the force of the blow.

      "Long live the gentle Kinglet of Phreex," he managed to say. And Chick clapped two chubby hands with glee, and whispered: "Well done, my friend!"

      "You please me, Sir John," remarked the little kinglet, swelling out his chest complacently. "I wish all the people of Phreex were so polite and discerning." Then he looked around and inquired: "Where's Sir Austed Alfrin, the Poet Laureate?"

      Immediately a drapery parted, and a man with a pale, thin face and long black hair entered and saluted his Majesty with profound respect. The Poet had a bandage over one eye and hobbled as if lame in one leg. He was clothed all in black, and his long frock coat had grease spots down the front of it.

      "Have you made me a sonnet to-day?" demanded the little kinglet.

      "Yes, my royal Master," answered the Poet; and, pompously unrolling a scroll, he read in a loud, falsetto voice, these lines:

      "There is a wise Kinglet of Phreex,

       Whose wit is so great that it leaks;

       His brain isn't big,

       But who cares a fig

       While wisdom from him fairly reeks?"

      "Now, that's not so bad," said his Majesty, reflectively. "But can't you make it a little stronger, Sir Poet?"

      "I'll try," replied Austed Alfrin; and after pencilling some words on his tablets he read as follows:

      "The Goddess of Wisdom felt sad;

       And when asked why she whimpered so bad,

       Said: 'There's one, it is true,

       Who knows more than I do— And the Kinglet of Phreex is the lad!'"

      "Now that," said his Majesty, "strikes me as being real poetry. How does it strike you, Sir John Dough?"

      "It's fairly good," replied the gingerbread man; "but it hardly does you justice."

      "The