“Oh, we had quidt a sharb shower,” said A. Fish, Esq., “ad I was afraid of gettig wet, so we stopped a ’bus—there was odly roob for two though, ad the Wallypug said thad he would cub od by the dext.”
“I hope he will get home all right,” I said anxiously. “I don’t think you ought to have left his Majesty by himself.”
“Oh! it’s only a little way,” said the Rhymester; “he’s sure to get home all right.”
“so we stopped a ’bus”
An hour passed and there was no signs of the Wallypug. I now began to get seriously anxious.
It would, of course, be the easiest thing in the world for his Majesty to take the wrong ’bus, and be taken goodness knows where.
I couldn’t think what was best to be done. The Rhymester suggested sending the Crier out, but I never remembered having seen one at Kensington, and at last, after searching for some time ourselves in Kensington Gardens, and making inquiries in High Street, and failing to glean any tidings of his Majesty, I thought it best to go to the Police Station.
Here I found a very important-looking official in uniform, with a big book in front of him.
“What is it?” he inquired, glaring at me fiercely.