Here Mr. Ridgeway, after seeing that the cylinder was placed on the seat in front of him, took out his automatic and rested it across his knees.
The boys were to wait for him at the gates. A number of the pale-blue soldiers mounted the running boards and hung on behind; the others closed in on either side and the car moved slowly out of sight, while the guardian closed the center leaves of the gates, leaving only a smaller gate open at either side.
Hank leaned back and sighed.
“Well, don’t that beat you?” he said. “Wish we could go up and see what the queen looks like. I bet she is nifty lookin’. Nuthin’ to do but load on the jewelry, and try on crowns.
“We have had some awful democratic, commonplace kings and queens back in Washington last few years, but I bet that’s all put on. They want to put it over on us; make a hit with the unions and all that when they come visitin’; but I bet when they are home it’s different. Now that prince the party is for: it’s his coming-of-age party, Mr. Ridgeway said.”
“Yes, but even that is different,” said Bill. “Mr. Ridgeway told me the heir to the throne here in this country is of age when he is fifteen. That’s so if anything should happen to the king, the boy could go right to kinging it without any lawyers having to be hired to make out papers.”
“Fifteen, eh?” mused Hank. “I’d like to see him now. I seen a picture in the Corcoran Art Gallery. It was named The Young Prince. He was all of that, I will say; with a long blanket like around him, and ribbons on his golf pants and a hat all feathers.”
“Oh, you make me tired!” said Bill. “I seen that pitcher myself. That guy was born way back—back before the Cuban war.”
A violent discussion seemed started, but a diversion was made by the sudden appearance of a bareheaded lad on a shabby bicycle. He came tearing through the small gate, saw the automobile drawn up at the side of the road in the shade, checked his pace, and with a shake of the head as though asking for silence, he dismounted, threw his wheel into the tall grass, and running around the car, lay down along the running board. So rapidly had he acted that no one had had time to speak, and immediately another bicyclist trundled through the gate. This time it was a ruddy-faced, middle-aged man with a couple of books strapped over his shoulder, a butterfly net across his chest, and a tin box rattling on his hip. He rode like a man in a hurry, gave one uninterested glance at the occupants of the auto, and rattled on, gazing earnestly down the dusty road.
The boy at once sat up.