His father looked at his mother, and nodded his head.
"He'd better stay in bed today," said he. "We won't talk to him about it until tomorrow."
"Yes," said his mother, "that will be much better. Poor little Freddie!"
Freddie did not know why he should be called poor, but he was still tired from the adventurous life he had recently lived, and he was very glad to remain in bed all day.
The next morning, after his father had said good-bye for the day, his mother allowed him to get up, and a little later to go out into the sunshine. He strolled down the street, enjoying the familiar sights after his long absence. He found his legs a little weak; he must have been very ill indeed at the King's palace, and he could not expect to get over it in one day. He crossed the street-car track, and on the pavement before the church he saw a well-known figure.
The Churchwarden was sitting in his chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a long pipe and reading a newspaper. As Freddie approached he put down his paper and looked at him over his spectacles.
"Good morning," said he. "I'm glad to see you back again. I hear you've been away." And he winked his eye at Freddie in a very knowing manner.
"Yes, sir," said Freddie. "I guess I must have been pretty sick."
"No doubt about it, my son. But of course I knew all the time you'd pull through."
Freddie did not believe it for a moment; obviously the Churchwarden was bragging.