The torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought for a time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps. Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King was delivered of a few inarticulate sounds, followed by the words:—“Go a—way you—dirty—little debbil!”
“Toby! What do you mean?”
“It’s what he’d say. I know it is! He said vat when vere was only a little, little eggy mess, on my t-t-unic; and he’d say it again, and laugh, if I went in wif vat on my head.”
“Who would say that?”
“M-m-my Papa! And I fought if I had ve blue wiban, he’d let me play in ve waste-paper basket under ve table.”
“What blue riband, childie?”
“Ve same vat Patsie had—ve big blue wiban w-w-wound my t-ttummy!”
“What is it, Toby? There’s something on your mind. Tell me all about it, and perhaps I can help.”
“Isn’t anyfing,” sniffed His Majesty, mindful of his manhood, and raising his head from the motherly bosom upon which it was resting. “I only fought vat you—you petted Patsie ’cause she had ve blue wiban, and—and if I’d had ve blue wiban too, m-my Papa w-would pet me.”
The secret was out, and His Majesty the King sobbed bitterly in spite of the arms round him, and the murmur of comfort on his heated little forehead.