“Yes,” answered a voice. “I’m here, and I’m surely in trouble.”
“Who are you, and what is the trouble, if I may ask?” politely went on Uncle Wiggily.
“I am the king,” was the answer. “This is my palace, but, with all that, I am in trouble. Come in.”
In hopped Uncle Wiggily, and there, surely enough, was the king, but he was in the kitchen, down on his hands and knees, looking with one eye through a crack in the floor, which is something kings hardly ever do.
“It’s down there,” he said. “And I can’t get it. I’m too fat to go through the crack.”
“What’s down there?” Uncle Wiggily wanted to know.
“My money,” answered the king. “You may have heard about me,” and he recited this little verse:
“The king was in the kitchen,
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor,