As it happened, he had stopped on a dusty highway just outside the gates of a city. We will call it a city because Billy later learned that its inhabitants did so, but to Billy's gaze it seemed but a collection of the poorest huts.
The Herald.
And as he stood punching and pulling and examining his suit a party of horsemen and horsewomen rode up. A few feet in advance of the rest of the party rode a tattered and torn individual on a lame horse. In his hand he carried a battered old fish horn on which he occasionally blew a feeble blast; this he followed by calling in a voice loud enough to make up for the wheeziness of his horn,
"Out of the way, out of the way O—the King rides."
"What if he does?" said Billy to himself. "I do too when I can catch behind a street car."
"Out of the way," cried the man, pulling up his horse, "out of the way, boy."
"I'm not in the way, there's plenty of room for you to pass, and I don't want to climb down into the ditch," said Billy.
"But the King passes—out of the way."