“There are two groschen for you.”
“I have to give you two centimes change.”
“Never mind that—you may keep them. A president of a republic has nothing mean about him.”
And with a proud and stately demeanour he departed in the direction of the photographer’s. Scarcely had he left the barber’s, when the boy hastened to the police-office, to relate how he had just been shaving a fellow who must certainly have just escaped from the lunatic asylum, for he had told him quite seriously that he was the president of a republic. A policeman started immediately with the terrified barber’s boy to search the streets of Maastricht for the lunatic.
It was, however, in vain. Bloemstein had already entered the studio of a neighbouring photographer, muttering, “I shall have to explain myself differently here. It seems as though these Maastricht people had never heard of the president of a republic.”
When the photographer appeared, he accordingly delivered himself as follows: “I want my photograph taken, but it must be properly done, for I am a king.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I give you a gun, then, or do you prefer a bow?”
“A gun!—a bow! What for?”
“Why, I’ve photographed a whole number of kings, and they——”
“Ah! you know how to do it then?”