"In a few fleeting moments," was the regal dough-belly's reply.
"And are all these folks going into the projectile?" pointing to the crowd of curious characters passing and repassing us.
"Not if the court knows herself and she thinks she does," put in the Prince, pertly; "only the King, Prof. Microscope and myself ride in the cab."
Prof. Microscope was a long, scrawny fellow. He was twirling a shaggy moustache and buzzing a handsome and not at all bashful ballet girl at the same time, a short distance away. He was gotten up in a blue-striped, swallow-tail coat, long enough, if the Professor cared about lending or renting it out, to be used for a streamer on the City Hall flagstaff, and short enough in the back to have the waist-buttons constantly challenging the collar to a prize fight or wrestling match. Very tight black pants, a luxuriantly frilled shirt front, fluted cuffs, and white hair allowed to grow to the length worn by Buffalo Bill, completed his outfit. When I was introduced to him, the Professor swore by the bones of Copernicus's grandmother on a volume of patent office reports that he was the sole originator and engineer of the only direct moon line, and he'd bet his boots or eat his hat that it never took more than fifteen minutes to make the trip.
"You see," said King Pin, "that Microscope is a queer fellow—not a coney man, you mind."
"Although," said the Prince, "he now and then casts his lot on the turn of the die."
LILLIE WEST.
"Yes, his lot of last year's clothing," the jolly King remarked, "on the turn of the dyer."