"I didn't make that up myself," he said. "I have heard a man who reads and knows things say it. I believe the Lost Prince would have had the same thoughts. If he had, and told them to his son, there has been a line of kings in training for Samavia for five hundred years, and perhaps one is walking about the streets of Vienna, or Budapest, or Paris, or London now, and he'd be ready if the people found out about him and called him."
"Wisht they would!" some one yelled.
"It would be a queer secret to know all the time when no one else knew it," The Rat communed with himself as it were, "that you were a king and you ought to be on a throne wearing a crown. I wonder if it would make a chap look different?"
He laughed his squeaky laugh, and then turned in his sudden way to Marco:
"But he'd be a fool to give up the vengeance. What is your name?"
"Marco Loristan. What's yours? It isn't The Rat really."
"It's Jem RATcliffe. That's pretty near. Where do you live?"
"No. 7 Philibert Place."
"This club is a soldiers' club," said The Rat. "It's called the Squad. I'm the captain. 'Tention, you fellows! Let's show him."
The semicircle sprang to its feet. There were about twelve lads altogether, and, when they stood upright, Marco saw at once that for some reason they were accustomed to obeying the word of command with military precision.