A sedentary life had told so severely upon one of the two beadles that he could no longer enter his box with dignity or read his newspaper there with any comfort. He resigned, and John obtained the post by his brothers' interest, in spite of his cork leg.
He had now a bright green suit with scarlet pipings, a gold-laced hat, a fashionable address, and very little to do. But the army had taught him to be active, and for lack of anything better he fell into deep thinking. This came near to bringing him into trouble. One evening he looked out of his sentry-box and saw a mild and somewhat sad-featured old gentleman approaching the gate.
"No admittance," said John.
"Tut, tut!" said the old gentleman. "I'm the King."
John looked at the face on his medal, and sure enough there was a resemblance. "But, all the same, your Majesty carries a burden,"—here he pointed to the notice-board,—"and the folks along this road are mighty particular."
The King smiled and then sighed heavily.
"It's about the Princess, my daughter," said he; "she has not smiled for a whole year."
"I'll warrant I'd make her," said John.
"I'll warrant you could not," said the King. "She will never smile again until she is married."
"Then," answered John, "speaking in a humble way, as becomes me, why the dickens alive don't you marry her up and get done with it?"