“No, this is a new game,” said Cyril, as the child wriggled from side to side in making these discoveries, “and if you will sit quiet, I’ll tell you about it. We are playing at being English people, and we all have different names. You are a little English boy, and your name is Tommy Weston. Fräulein is pretending to be your nurse, and I am your Uncle Arthur. M. Paschics is called Carlo.”
“Carlo,” repeated the child meditatively. “And what is mamma?”
“She is your mother still; but her name is Mrs Weston.”
“But what is the game, Herr Graf?”
“You must call me Uncle Arthur, not Herr Graf. We are playing at enemies, don’t you see?—travelling through their country; and if they once find out that we are not English, we shall be killed. So you must never speak anything but English, remember, and never call any of us by our old names, because it would do a great deal of harm—I mean it would spoil the game.”
“I don’t think it’s a very interesting game,” said the little King dolefully. “The enemy ought to be coming after us, or hiding behind the hedges to shoot as we go by.”
“I hardly think you would like it if they did,” remarked Cyril.
“No; because we couldn’t run away very fast in this cart, could we? We should have to ride away on the horses,—and there are only two of them.”
“Yes, and they are very tired, too. But I hope in a little while we shall be able to get a carriage, and travel comfortably.”
“And shall we have breakfast too?”