From his bed the prince could see it all, the whole damnable imposition. First he could see emerge the full outlines of His Serene Highness of Zabonia. The prince could see plainly the celebrated red nose of that monarch; rather like an electric-light bulb in the center of a round cheese, thought the prince, who had a gift for simile. He wondered why the Zabonian emperor insisted on wearing that ridiculous skin-tight pink hussar uniform. Then the prince saw his father step on the balcony, to cheers. His Majesty was in the cream-and-gold uniform of a field marshal of the King’s Very Own Royal Indefatigables, and he took his place at the emperor’s side, bowing. Then came the stunning blow to the mumps-stricken prince. Another figure had appeared on the balcony, a very erect, dignified figure in the dashing uniform of the Royal Purple Bombardiers. The prince in the bed perceived that the thing on the balcony was himself!
As, horrified, he watched, Prince Ernest saw the thing’s hand go up in a precise military salute. The great throng of people went wild. Their cheers made the palace tremble.
“Viva our prince!” he heard distinctly. “Long live Prince Ernest!”
A lean man with a hungry face had eluded the police and eeled his way to the top of a lamp-post in the plaza.
“There he is!” called the man shrilly. “Every inch a prince! Who’s every inch a prince?”
Their answer filled the air with sound—“Prince Ernest! Prince Ernest! Prince Ernest!”
Lying there, Prince Ernest saw the dummy back majestically from the balcony.
“Long life to the prince!” screamed the man on the lamp-post. “He never turns his back on his people!”
The crowds took up the cry.
“Long life to Prince Ernest! He never turns his back on his people!”