“For God’s sake, Ardy——” howled the duke.
“That remark I will not now construe as profanity, but don’t let it occur again. The first charge against you is that of insulting a woman on the Sunset Trail in the estate called Ardsley, owned by a person known in law as Thomas Ardmore. There are three witnesses to the fact that you tried to stop a woman in the road, and that streak on your face is even more conclusive. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“You are mad! You are crazy!” shouted the duke; but his face was very white now, and the mark of the crop flamed scarlet.
“You are guilty, beyond any question. But the further charge against you that you pretend to be—what did he say his name was, Cooke?—that you pretend to be the Duke of Ballywinkle must now be considered. That is quite right, is it; you say you are the duke?”
“Yes, you fool!” howled the duke. “I’ll have the law on you for this! I’ll appeal to the British ambassador.”
“I advise you not to appeal to anybody,” said Ardmore, “and the British ambassador is without jurisdiction in North Carolina. You have yourself asserted that you are the Duke of Ballywinkle. Why Ballywinkle? Why not Argyll? why not Westminster? Why not, if duke you must be, the noble Duke of York?”
The Duke of Ballywinkle sat staring, stupefied. The whole thing was one of his silly brother-in-law’s stupid jokes; there was no question of that; and Tommy Ardmore was always a bore; but in spite of the comfort he derived from these reflections the duke was not a little uneasy; for he had never seen his brother-in-law in just this mood, and he did not like it. Ardmore was carrying the joke too far; and there was an assurance in Ardmore’s tone, and a light in Ardmore’s eyes, that were ominous. Cooke had meanwhile lighted his pipe and was calmly smoking until his chief should have his fling.
Ardmore now drew from his pocket Johnston’s American Politics with an air of greatest seriousness.
“Cooke,” he said, half to himself, as he turned the pages, “do you remember just what the constitution says about dukes? Oh yes, here we are! Now, Mr. Duke of Ballywinkle, listen to what it says here in Section IX. of the Constitution of the United States, which reads exactly as follows in this book: ‘No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States: And no person holding any office of profit or trust under them, shall, without the consent of the Congress, accept of any present, emolument, office, or title, of any kind whatever, from any king, prince, or foreign state.’ And it says in Section X. that ‘No state shall grant any title of nobility.’ Now, Mr. Ballywinkle, it is perfectly clear that this government can’t recognize anything that it can’t create, for that would be foolish. As I, the governor of North Carolina, can’t make a duke, I can’t see one. You are therefore wholly illegal; it’s against the most sacred law of the land for you to be here at all; and painful though it is to me, it is nevertheless my duty to order you to leave the United States at once, never to return. In fact, if you ever appear in the United States again, I hereby order that you be hanged by the neck until you be dead. One of Mr. Cooke’s men will accompany you to New York to-morrow and see to it that you take passage on a steamer bound for a British port. The crime of having insulted a woman will still hang over you until you are well east of Sandy Hook, and I advise you not to risk being tried on that charge in North Carolina, as my people are very impulsive and emotional, and lynchings are not infrequent in our midst. You shall spend to-night in my official caboose some distance from here, and your personal effects will be brought from Ardsley, where, you have said, you are a guest of Mr. Thomas Ardmore, who is officially unknown to me. The supreme court will now adjourn.”
Cooke pulled the limp, bewildered duke to his feet, and dragged him from the bungalow.