"Kill it? Kilt!" cried Harry. "Oh, what a rum chap you are sometimes, Phra! But that's only the old savage dress of the Highlanders. Hardly anybody but soldiers wears that now."
"Kill—kill it—kilt," said Phra thoughtfully. "What had you got to laugh at? Why, it does mean a war petticoat."
"All right; have it your own way," said Harry, who was watching the last of the guard following the box into the courtyard.
"But I don't want to have it my own way if I'm wrong," said Phra. "I want to be right."
"Very well. You are wrong there, lad."
"Why do they call it a kilt, then?" said Phra.
"Because it is a kilt, I suppose. Because—because—there, I don't know. We'll ask the doctor. But, I say, I didn't mean any harm about laughing at the King. I wouldn't, and I wouldn't let any one else laugh at him. He's such a good old chap; but he does look rum sometimes."
"Well, I know that," said Phra hurriedly. "And I don't like it, Hal, and I wish he would do as English gentlemen do; but he can't altogether."
"Why?"
"Because he's king, and the people wouldn't like it. The priests don't like a great deal that he does now, and they talk about it to the common people. They make them believe that my father is fighting against them and doing them harm."