“My dear sir, this is really too bad; you mustn’t think of going out, ill as you are,” he said.
“Oh, nonsense, my dear M.D.” said the Lord High Fiddle-de-dee. “State matters of the utmost importance demand my immediate attendance at the House of Words, and I must go whether I am well or not. Who are these persons with you?” he continued, staring rather hard at Boy and One-and-Nine.
“Oh! I really don’t know their names,” replied the M.D. “I think they are respectable persons, though.”
“Have they a vote?” inquired the Lord High Fiddle-de-dee anxiously.
“Yes, I think so,” said the M.D., referring to his watch. “They have been in the Town over an hour.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” said the Lord High Fiddle-de-dee; “every one who has lived here for more than an hour is entitled to a vote. Bring them along; they may be useful. What’s your name?” he continued, turning to Boy.
“My name is Cyril, but I am usually called Boy,” was the reply.
“And yours?” asked the Lord High Fiddle-de-dee of the Wooden Soldier.
“One-and-Nine, Your Honour,” replied he, saluting respectfully.
“Rubbish, I didn’t ask your price,” said the Lord High Fiddle-de-dee impatiently. “I want to know your name.”