“Can’t we!” laughed Jean. “Billy, you’ve got all your soldiers, haven’t you?”
“Rather!” gasped Billy. “D’you really mean to get them? And no lessons?”
“Really and truly!” laughed Jean. “And bring any blocks you’ve got. Clear the table, and we’ll go back to Ancient Rome!”
She darted to the store-room, returning presently with half-a-dozen packets of matches.
“Must be careful of these, because they’ve got to go back,” she said, stripping off the paper wrappings. “I know Billy hasn’t enough blocks left, now. Come along, Rex, and we’ll build Rome.”
They built it at one end of the table, a wobbly oblong, enclosed by strong matchbox walls. There were turrets and towers here and there, made of cotton-reels. Without, ran the Tiber, a noble river of yellow ribbon, wide, and doubtless deep. A bridge spanned it—a high-walled bridge, long and narrow. From the bridge you came out upon a wide plain, the rest of the table: it was easy to see it was a plain, because it was flat, and there were trees on it, and cattle, contributed by an ancient Noah’s Ark. It was all workmanlike and comprehensible, and something like interest kindled in Rex’s eye.
“Atlas, please, Billy,” Jean said. “You know, the Ancient History Atlas.”
She showed them the scene of the story.
“Now you’ve got to get that in your head, Rex, and remember it’s all real.” Rapidly she sketched the story of the downfall of the Tarquins.
“They’d been kings of Rome, but they were absolute wasters, and at last the Romans were just fed up with them, and they kicked them out. Served them jolly well right, too; the Romans were terribly proud, and the Tarquins weren’t fit to have in a decent city. And they cleared out to a place called Clusium—here it is—and asked Lars Porsena, the Etruscan king, for help.”