He had been sitting there for hours. It was now one o'clock.
"Now then, you!" said the voice of the sergeant in charge. His turn had come.
In an adjoining room he found his two accusers awaiting him. He was led up to a table where sat an official in uniform making entry of the names. A charge-sheet, nearly full, was spread on the table before him.
The policeman who had made the arrest gave in the charge.
"Name?" said the sergeant-clerk sharply, suspending the motion of his pen.
The King, still wearing his cap, took off his snow-glasses and turned down the collar of his coat.
It was no use. The officer looked at him without recognition.
"Name?" he said again; and the policeman upon his right, giving the King a rough jog, said, "Tell the sergeant your name!" And so, it appeared, the useless formality must go on.
The King gave the two essentials—first-christian and surname—out of a long string of appendices for which half the sovereigns of Europe had stood as godfathers.
But the three words "John Ganz-Wurst" meant nothing to the official ear. Over the patronymic he paused in doubt when only halfway through. "Spell it!" he said, and, at the King's dictation, altered his V into a W.