The King prided himself on his mastery of that esoteric English by which the members of various sets, smart, sporting and other, conceal the meaning of what they say from outsiders, especially from foreigners who have acquired their knowledge of our language by painful study of dictionaries and grammars.
“Since the wine company went on the burst,” said the King, “I have not a stiver, not a red cent, not in all my pockets the price of one damned drink.”
“If I might venture to advise you, sir,” said Gorman.
“Advise? Certainly advise. But drop or, as you say in England, knock up calling me ‘sir.’ I am no longer a king. I resign. I abdicate. I chuck up the sponge of royalty. What the hell, my dear Gorman, is the good of being a king when there are no shekels?”
“I shouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Gorman. “After all, royalty is an asset. A title like that—kings aren’t at all common, you know—is worth money in the market.”
The King drank a glass of brandy with an air of great dejection.
“In what market? Who will buy?”
“Well,” said Gorman, “I suppose you might marry. There must be lots of wealthy girls who would like to be called queen.”
The King leaned forward and smacked Gorman heartily on the knee.