"Pooh!" sniffed Dad scornfully. "That means nothing whatsoever."
"Shampoo?" suggested the barber hopefully. "Let me give your Highness a little shave and hair cut."
"Are you a barber?" asked Dad, looking at the Rasher with more interest. "If you're a barber, you can stay and welcome. There's always room for another barber, Down Town."
"Thank you! Thank you! If your majesty will permit—" The barber bowed apologetically to the Prince of Rash, "I will remain here. I have always wanted to make money," he acknowledged frankly.
"Me too!" gulped the sad singer eagerly.
"I've sung until I'm hoarse, in Rash,
And never earned a cent in cash!"
"He has a voice like a horse," whispered Dad, in a loud aside to the Queen.
"He sings like a jack-ass!" agreed Her Majesty readily. "But let him stay. Any kind of a noise goes, Down Town. Now as to these others?" She rolled her golden eyes in perplexity and disapproval at the Vegetable Man and the Hungry Tiger; then evidently giving them up, cried in a loud voice, "The audience is over and the prisoners are discharged. Let them make some money, pay up and settle down."
"Well, good-bye!" smiled Dad, picking up his paper with a sigh of relief. "If you don't like the positions we have chosen for you, go down to the square and choose some others. Take them to the public square!" he ordered, waving at the officers.