The sibilations of that whistle were prophetic of atmospheric disturbance to come. In a week the storm broke.
The King happened to be away, paying a visit of complimentary inspection to frontier fortresses and heard nothing about it. But on his return Max came to him charged with tidings.
He stood over his father and looked at him with a note of satirical approval in his eye, which did not inspire the King with any confidence.
"Sir, do you know what you have done?"
His Majesty denied the impeachment. "I haven't done anything. Not yet."
"You have revolutionized the drama! Even now, at this very moment, the great heart of Jingalo is throbbing from plushed stalls to gallery stair-rail. Because of you The Gaudy Girl is playing its third night to an accompaniment of hilarious riot and uproar such as have not been known in our dramatic world since the public was forced to give up its right to free sittings."
The King was startled; some alarm crept into his voice. "Do you mean that I have done harm?"
"Not in the least; no, quite the reverse. But you have certainly doubled the play's fortune. The run is going to be tremendous."
His Majesty felt flattered; had he not reason? For this surely must mean that he had rightly interpreted the public taste, and that what the popular will really wanted was a pure and carefully expurgated drama.
But Max speedily undeceived him.