As big as the coach wheels
The king put his head out the window. “What’s the matter?” he roared.
The two footmen climbed cautiously down, and stood at attention beside the door.
“Begging your Majesty’s pardon,” said the first, “the bridge is down.”
“Thundering waterfalls!” shouted the king. “It can’t be.” And he burst out of the coach, with Jack at his heels.
Sure enough, there was no bridge at all,—just a line of gray stones heaped higgeldy-piggeldy from bank to bank, with the stream running saucily over them as much as to say, “You can’t bridge me! You can’t bridge me!”
“Well,” cried the king, “I’ll be splashed!” And he sent the two footmen off for the master mason as fast as their gilt legs could carry them.
The master mason scratched his head.
“You see your work,” said the king with a great sneer, “—a bridge so strong it has taken the stream a whole night to wash it away!”
The master mason flushed. “Asking your Majesty’s pardon,” he said stolidly, “it couldn’t have been the river. The bridge I built should have stood a hundred years, barring earthquakes.”