“The fact is,” said I, “we should prefer gold or silver.”
“Impudence!” cried the King. “Gold? Silver? What do you mean? I never heard of them.”
“He’ll take the leaves, never fear,” said the dwarf. “Oh, yes.”
“Take ’em!” cried the King. “Who is the beautiful lady? Take ’em? Dead leaves or nothing! Take ’em or leave ’em!”
It was plain that a fortune of dead leaves was as good as any other, if you only thought it so, and if these people thought it so, as they evidently did, I might as well take it.
“I am satisfied, your majesty,” said I, “and if you will hold out your palm, I will work the cure.”
The Perfection Cream Is Rubbed into the Itching Palm
The King held out his left hand as he passed, and I trotted along beside him, and drawing from my pouch one of my little jars, I applied to the King’s palm, with my fingers, a small portion of my salve, rubbing it in as well as I could; and then I ran around to his other side, and did the same for his other hand. It was rather difficult, considering that I had to trot along beside him as he tripped back and forth across the carpet.
“What, what, what! Bless my soul!” cried the King, stopping suddenly. “It feels better!”
I bowed and smiled, and Buffo the Fool said, “Mad, old Fatchaps! Both of you mad!”