The portraits, however, did not arrive.
“WROTE INNUMERABLE LETTERS TO ALL THE POWERS OF EUROPE.”
After the lapse of a fortnight, Bloemstein’s ploughman—for he had no intention of going to Maastricht again himself—was sent to the photographer’s, to ask whether the portraits of the President of the Republic of Altenet were not yet ready.
“Do you really want them?—seriously?” inquired the artist.
“I suppose so, seeing as how I had to come here a-purpose.”
“Very well, I’ll send them next week.”
At the appointed time the impatiently awaited packet at last arrived at the house of Altenet’s ruler. Something else arrived as well,—the long royal mantle promised by the tailor, richly ornamented with gold fringe.
Bloemstein was quite excited with joy. Without a moment’s delay he flung the royal insignia round his shoulders, and then stood before the mirror, admiring his front and back view by turns. He was satisfied—perfectly and entirely satisfied—both with the garment and him who wore it!
“The other fellows must see that too! Thunder! how they’ll stare!”