"A cat!" cried the King. "Then it must be the Archbishop."
"The Archbishop of Timbuctoo-and-a-half?" asked Margaret.
"Yes, the Archbishop of Timbuctoo-and-a-half. He promised to drop in to-day. He's cruising around on his private raft."
"That's who it is!" cried the dragon, leaning over the edge of the tower and calling down to the King. "I can see him now. He's just come through the cloud-wall. Hooray, for the Archbishop of Timbuctoo-and-a-half!"
With that, the enthusiastic Lobsterneck dived head-first down his staircase, with a clash as though someone had flung a shovelful of tenpenny nails on a stone pavement, bolted out of the arched doorway, and galloped off down the hill toward the beach to welcome the Archbishop.
"Come on!" shouted the King; and away he went, himself, down the hill, followed by Margaret and Frances, the little Coco Bolos, the Admiral, the Court Crier and all the courtiers, everyone of them running so fast that stumpy-legged Periwinkle, the only one who had not had any aëro-plane water, was the last in the race.
As soon as they arrived at the pier, they saw the raft slowly approaching, escorted on all sides by the whole pack of dog-fish. It was a trim and well built raft, about as big as a bedroom floor, with a mast in the middle, to which was attached a square sail, blown out tight by the wind. On top of the mast, having evidently been scared up there by the barking of the dog-fish, sat a big gray cat; while in front of the sail, holding his crozier in one hand and kissing the other to the people ashore stood the Archbishop, himself.
To Margaret and Frances, who had never seen one before, an Archbishop was almost as much of a curiosity as a snap-dragon. At the same time, however, they had formed in their own minds a sort of picture of what an Archbishop would be like, expecting to find him a dignified old gentleman, dressed in black, with a bald head, a long white beard, and most probably wearing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
What was their surprise, therefore, when, as the raft drew near, they saw that the Archbishop of Timbuctoo-and-a-half was not by any means the kind of person they had imagined. He was a jaunty young gentleman with a neat little black moustache; instead of gold-rimmed spectacles, he wore in his right eye an eyeglass which he kept in place with difficulty by screwing up one corner of his mouth; on his shoulders, concealing all but his white silk stockings and red shoes, he wore a purple cloak embroidered all over with gold lace; while, most noticeable of all, on his head was an archbishop's mitre of ample size and antique design.
Slowly the raft glided forward, until it presently bumped gently against the pier, when the frisky Archbishop, using his crozier as a jumping pole, leaped lightly upon the steps, and running up them with hand extended, he cried: