Some table centrepieces and carving-scarfs formed fine head-gear, and by the time all the costumes were completed, the clotheslines looked as if the wash had been taken in after all.
The white-garbed half dozen pranced back to the queen on her throne, and the ceremonies began.
“First, we sing a dirge,” said Jack Fuller.
“Not a dirge,” said Dolly. “Don’t you mean a chant?”
“Well, some waily kind of a thing, anyway.”
So they all droned an inharmonious series of wailings that might have been imitative of Chinese tom-toms, only it wasn’t meant to be.
“Now we must have a speech,” said Pinkie; “you make it, Dick; you’re good at that.”
“All right,” said Dick, and stepping forward, while his tablecloth toga trailed in the dust, he began:
“Oh, Queen Eliza Dusenbury, we beg you to accept this crown. We want you for our beloved queen, and we will obey all your rules and reggilations. We bow our hominage——”
“Homage,” corrected Jack.