‘Toby,’ said the Commissioner’s wife gravely, ‘you shouldn’t give way to temper. I am very sorry to see it. It’s wrong.’
His Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, and the heart of Patsie’s mother was touched. She drew the child on to her knee. Clearly it was not temper alone.
‘What is it, Toby? Won’t you tell me? Aren’t you well?’
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-t-tummy!’