“We might put something over the coach,” he said.
“We might put something over the river!” cried Jack. “Why couldn’t we build a bridge?”
“Gilded Shamrocks!” cried the king. “That’s the very idea. We could ride across as dry and fine as you please.”
So he called the master mason. And that very hour all the masons from far and near began stirring about in great troughs of mortar and lugging building-stones as big as the coach wheels. By sunset there was as neat and stout a little bridge as you would wish to see. And the king and the queen and Jack walked up and down before it, beaming to think how spick and span and shiny they’d be next day, rumbling across it down to the town.
Lugging building stones
In the morning before he got his crown on, the king called for his coach; and the minute breakfast was done, around it drove to the palace door, glittering like a million gold-pieces. Then the queen stepped in, dressed in her shiniest gown, and the king in his best crown, and last of all, Jack, with a fine green feather in his hat. The footmen clambered carefully up on top so as not to rub their bright gilt boots, the coachman touched up the horses, and off they all whirled, as splendid a sight as the sun ever shone on.
Down the hill they rolled with a fine dash, when the horses reared and stopped.
“Dear me! Dear me!” fluttered the queen. “I hope the harness hasn’t broken.”
