"They eat out of golden dishes," said the tailor, "and the very nails in their boots are silver!"
Martin knew as much about the court as any present; but he was in one of his silent humours this evening.
"The princess gave a hundred crowns," cried the blacksmith, "for a one-eyed lapdog, and My Lord Lackaday—Prince Primus, I mean—two hundred for a certain white fly for his angling-rod——"
"And he never gave me a hundred groats," blurted out Martin, who could not stand any reference to the prince in question.
Thereupon the conversation took another turn; wages were discussed, the weaver and the ploughman "compared notes"; and, as for Martin, it was the unanimous opinion of the whole company that he, at least, ought to strike—to insist on an increase of pay, or refuse to labour any more as the king's own gardener.
Accordingly, the next morning Martin watched and waited till his royal master came sidling along the smooth gravel walk in his embroidered slippers, with his dressing-gown floating about him, sniffing with good-humoured satisfaction the sweet fragrance of the standard roses, that formed a phalanx on either side.
"I've got to tell your Majesty," began Martin abruptly, "that, unless your Majesty raises my salary, I can't work any more in your Majesty's garden."
Whereupon the old king started back all astonished; then laughed so heartily that he brought on a fit of coughing.
"Your Majesty may be highly amused," grumbled Martin, "but I've said my say, and I mean to stick to it!"
"But suppose your salary ain't raised," began the king, trying his best to look serious, "what then?"