The Griffin seized Carry-on-Merry's golden wand for the second time that evening and approached the sombre man of the top boots and the slouch hat menacingly. "Move on," shouted the Griffin, giving a lifelike imitation of the man in blue with a helmet. "Move on, d'ye hear?"
The sombre figure backed a little way in astonishment.
"Move on," said the Griffin, "out of this; we don't want you here. Orff you go!" The sombre figure retreated a little more. "If I catch you here again," said the Griffin pompously, "I will run you in; no loafing here!" The sombre man gave one scowl, sheathed his sword with a clank, and hurriedly took his departure without once looking back or uttering any further remark.
"Bravo!" muttered the Lion, "that is the first useful thing the Griffin has done all the evening."
"Who was that dismal looking man muffled up like a brigand?" asked
Ridgwell.
The Lion smiled. "That was Oliver Cromwell. He came to try and spoil the party."
"Why?" asked Ridgwell.
"He doesn't like the extravagance," said the Lion; "he hates any display, and cannot bear to see children happy."
"Thank you, Griffin," said Christine.
"Listen, all of you," simpered the Griffin, "some one has thanked me. Oh! Fancy anybody thanking me. Has everybody heard me publicly thanked?" asked the Griffin anxiously.