The Scout-Master moved forward. The Prince, bounding to the bed, thrust his hand under the pillow. Clarence's voice rang out like a trumpet.
"Cover that man!"
The Prince looked up. Two feet away Scout-Master Wagstaff was standing, catapult in hand, ready to shoot.
"He is never known to miss," said Clarence warningly.
The Prince wavered.
"He has broken more windows than any other boy of his age in South London."
The Prince sullenly withdrew his hand—empty.
"Well, whad do you wad?" he snarled.
"Resistance is useless," said Clarence. "The moment I have plotted and planned for has come. Your troops, worn out with fighting, mere shadows of themselves, have fallen an easy prey. An hour ago your camp was silently surrounded by patrols of Boy Scouts, armed with catapults and hockey-sticks. One rush and the battle was over. Your entire army, like yourself, are prisoners."
"The diggids they are!" said the Prince blankly.