“How can a girl help a man?” cried Dick, angrily; and poor Jaqueline, remembering how she had helped him, at the risk of her own life, when King James nearly crushed her in the shape of a mosquito, turned her head away, and cried silently.
“I’m a beast,” said Dick. “I beg your pardon, Jack dear. You are always a trump, I will say; but I don’t see what you can do.”
Then he told her all the story (which, of course, she knew perfectly well already), except the part played by the mosquito, of which he could not be aware.
“I was sure it was not so bad as you made it out, Dick,” she said. “You see, the old king, who is not very wise, but is a perfectly honourable gentleman, gave you the highest praise.” She thought of lecturing him a little about
disobeying his father, but it did not seem a good opportunity. Besides, Jaqueline had been lectured herself lately, and had not enjoyed it.
“What am I to say to my mother?” Dick repeated.
“We must think of something to say,” said Jaqueline.
“I can’t tell my mother anything but the truth,” Ricardo went on. “Here’s my hand, how it does sting! and she must find out.”
“I think I can cure it,” said Jaqueline. “Didn’t you say Prince Charles gave you his own sword?”
“Yes, there it is; but what has that to do with it?”