“Has lost his head,” corrected Grampa, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“But Grampa!” Stumbling across the room, Prince Tatters shook the old soldier by the arm. “When—how—why—what will he do?”
“Do without it,” sighed the old soldier, glancing uneasily at Fumbo.
“The King has lost his head, long live his body!” wheezed Pudge, rolling up his eyes.
“Now don’t cry, my dear!” begged Grampa, scowling reprovingly at Pudge and patting Mrs Sew-and-Sew on the shoulder. “Having no head really saves one no end of trouble. No face to wash! No more headaches, no ear aches, no tooth aches!” Grampa’s voice grew more and more cheerful. “No lectures to listen to, no spectacles to hunt, no hair to lose, no more colds to catch in it. Why he is really better off without a head!”
But Mrs Sew-and-Sew refused to be comforted and rocking to and fro moaned, “What shall we do! What shall we do? What shall we do?”
“I tell you,” proposed Pudge, pursing up his lips importantly. “Let’s all have a strong cup of coffee.” As this seemed a sensible suggestion they all filed into the big red kitchen of the castle, leaving Fumbo kicking his heels against the stone pillar.
The Wise Man Speaks
