“Poor Millie!” said Tootles, still on his back. “Are you convinced now?”
“I am,” said Flick. “I give up. I know nothing about human nature.”
For three days, King O’Leary vouchsafed no explanation. He rose, clamped into stiff shirt and stiff collar, crushed down over his free brow the unspeakable derby hat, and departed into society. Flick and Tootles arranged the old flannel shirt, flowing tie, and venerable sombrero upon a roughly constructed wooden cross in the corner and placed upon it the following inscription:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
King O’Leary
Requiscat in Pace
But on the evening of the third day, while they were sitting glumly in the easiest chairs, reflecting upon the frailties of human nature, shortly after ten o’clock the door opened and King O’Leary came in. While they gazed upon him in amazement, with the utmost solemnity he placed the derby hat in the center of the floor, added the stiff collar, and, going to the corner, took from the commemorative cross the loose shirt, his old friend, the sombrero, and the limp tie. In another moment, he stood before them the King O’Leary of old.
“What about the plug hat?” said Flick faintly.