“I told her politely that I should like him better, if he would kindly allow us to go home,” added Mrs. Curtis.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out.”
Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand—either painting or moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully at the bust, and flung it.
“Missed, by half-an-inch! I’ll try again. That’s right. Hit him fair and square on the nose. Now you, Curtis. See if you can beat that.”
“You’ll break something, I’m sure,” objected Mrs. Curtis. “And then we shall have to pay for it.”
“All right. I’ll pay. Now your turn. Whew! another miss. I’m getting out of practice. That’s it! Nose again.”
Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to find some vent for his happiness, and not to be easily checked; and Curtis was drawn in, hardly resisting. First one, then the other, aimed chip after chip at that self-contained face of worldwide fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes missing. When for the third time Roy succeeded in touching the nose, he was hilariously delighted. “Bravo, bravo!” he cried. “Down with the old fellow! À bas l’Empereur!”
“Sh—h! Roy, be careful. You’ll certainly get yourself into trouble.”
“All right—nobody here but ourselves. Now you again. I say, I wish I could do this to the real individual. Wouldn’t it be a game worth playing? À bas the old chap! Now you—down with Nap! Now it’s me.”
Roy’s excitement went beyond bounds. He seized a solid ball, belonging to the baby, and aimed with precision.