“Worse than ever, he’s light brown now,” said the Cockatoo.
“Oh! wipe it off! wipe it off,” implored the Wallypug.
“No!” said Oom Hi, who seemed very greatly disappointed at the non-success of his experiment, “let it dry on.”
“We had better put him in the stocks,” he declared, “to prevent him from rubbing it off.” So the poor little Wallypug was led off to the stocks and securely fastened in, with his hands spread out to dry, and with strict injunctions not to move till he was told.
HIS MAJESTY IN THE STOCKS.
The last view that I had of his Majesty was of the poor little fellow, utterly worn out with his exertions, meekly sitting in the stocks and falling into an uneasy slumber, from which, however, he was frequently awakened by the bees and flies, which, attracted by the sticky stuff on his face and hands, flocked around him as though he were a pot of jam.
“We might keep this as a curiosity,” said the Cockatoo, turning her attention to me next. “Put in a cage with a large label, ‘Blue-faced and hatless man, Dangerous!’ he ought to be an attraction to our menagerie. I think that’s what we’ll do with him,” and despite my struggles and protests I was ignominiously marched off by the Crocodiles, who continued to make rude and personal remarks about my appearance all the way to the dungeon, where it appeared I was to spend my time till a cage could be prepared for me.
Of course I was terribly indignant at my treatment, but was absolutely powerless to prevent it And the only thing that I could do when the Crocodiles had left me alone, after a few parting jeers, was to consider the best way of effecting my escape.
