"Room" he cried. "Room, there, for King Solomon in all his glory" He whirled his bottle again, and the dancers broke before him. A Sir Toby Belch got the thick end of the bottle in his natural fatness, and collapsed with a groan. "Remove the body!" ordered Nickie, magnificently. "D'ye hear me, there, minions? Remove these offensive remain from the royal presence."
The guests had retreated against the walls, and Nickie held the floor. Nobody believed this to be an artistic effort to sustain the character. Weary Willie was as drunk as a lord. He tittered a wild Indian whoop, and sang the chorus of "at the Old Bull and Bush," beating time with a leg of turkey. Then he turned to the band.
"Play 'God Shave King'." he said. "If yeh don' play 'Go' Shave King' I'll have ver heads off 'fore mornin'."
King Henry interposed, he put a restraining hand on Nickie, and spoke soothingly to him and Nickie the Kid promptly knocked the poor monarch on the head. Then rude hands seized Nickie: he was rushed from the house; he was rushed down the path, and hurled into the street.
When all the guests had left the white mansion at Banklands, and daylight was streaming in, a weary man-servant interviewed the master of "Whitecliff."
"Please, sir," he said; "the—eh—gentleman who was thrown out last night."
"Well, what of him?" asked the host, disgustedly.
"He's sleeping in the garden, sir."
The host went out. He found Nickie the Kid sleeping in the Pansy bed, and
Nickie was pulled to his feet.
"Nicholas!" he gasped.