The king was contrite.
“Sorry, son,” he said. “I shouldn’t speak like that of royalty, I know. But I have so much on my mind these days, with this tiresome visit and your mumps and the shadow of war and heaven knows what.”
“But, father,” said the prince, following up his advantage, “please don’t ask me to permit this monstrous thing. It’s not honorable. It’s not princely.”
The king patted his son’s silk pajamaed shoulder.
“Pish-tush, Ernie!” he said playfully. “I wish you wouldn’t always be so devilishly idealistic. You’re so high-minded one needs to get on a stepladder to talk to you. Wake up, Ernie. You’re old enough now not to believe in Santa Claus any longer.”
The king’s tone grew more serious.
“I’ve dreaded this day, Ernie,” he said, “on your account. You’re such a naïve chap, you know. Still, the day was bound to come. It’s like a fellow’s first cigar—sickens him at first, but it’s the only way to learn to smoke.”
“Father,” said the prince, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that it’s not right to try to impersonate a prince in this way. That grinning dummy there isn’t I. It can’t be I. Nobody will be fooled. And furthermore, I don’t want to fool my people.”
“Roll over and go to sleep, Ernie,” said the king. “There are times when you give me a sharp pain in the region of the waistcoat.”