“It takes something like an attack on the king to stir up these people,” said Joy. He added, with a sigh: “Isn’t it enough to make a peaceful man sorrow to see so much strife and contention and—and pomp of war? Woe!—woe!”
“Oh, shut up, you fraud,” laughed Clif. “There isn’t a plebe in the academy, nor a cadet, who likes fighting more than you do. You would rather fight than eat.”
The two cadets spent some time looking about the city, then they engaged a carriage and ordered the driver to take them to the suburb in which lived the Windoms.
“This has been a day of events, chum,” remarked Clif as he leaned back in the vehicle. “Who would ever take that blooming ‘haw’ Englishman to be an anarchist, and one of the very worst type, too. Why, I guyed him for half an hour this morning and thought all the time he was a fool.”
“He was a fool,” replied Joy, grimly.
“Yes, otherwise he would never have tried such a preposterous trick. I wonder if he came here to make the attempt on Dom Carlos’ life?”
“Like as not. I read in a paper the other day that considerable activity existed in anarchistic circles. Sort of getting ready to slay a few monarchs, I suppose. They drove a lot of ’em from Paris and London. Perhaps this J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate was one of them.”
“No doubt,” yawned Clif, stretching his arms.
“D’ye think he was drowned?”