Then the horses would plunge spluttering in up to their gilt harnesses, the coach would slip and reel, and the water would come pounding up against the gilt-edged window-panes. Worst of all, when they reached the other side, there would be little black mud spots all over the gilt wheels, all over the gilt sides, all over the shiny door. And that was a sorry way for the king of Ireland to drive down among his subjects.
The king was sitting on his throne, turning it over in his mind when in came his son Jack.
“Good morning, father,” said Jack, bowing with all his might.
But the king was so melancholy and disturbed that he never said a word, but just nodded his head to show that he knew Jack was there.
“Is something troubling you, father?” asked Jack respectfully.
“It’s that river again!” cried the king, puckering his brow till his crown slipped down over his left eye. “What’s the use of having the finest coach in three kingdoms if every time you drive abroad it’s bespotted and bespattered like a common gipsy wagon?”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Jack.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to think,” said the king.
So Jack sat down quietly on the steps of the throne and thought with his father. Just as the clock struck ten, the king had an idea.