"The
King mush be able to pronounsh--name of his country--intel-lillil-
gibly: mush shay (hic!): 'I'm King of--King of--Tootoo-tooral-
looral-anyer.'" He staggered, laughed, and fell under the table.
"He cannot say it!" gasped Fritz and Spitz in one voice. "He is
lost!"
"Unless," said Fritz suddenly, pointing at me with a flash of
intelligence, "HE can personate him, and say it. Can you?" he
turned to me brusquely.
It was an awful moment. I had been drinking heavily too, but I
resolved to succeed. "I'm King of Trooly-rooly--" I murmured; but
I could not master it--I staggered and followed the King under the
table.
"Is there no one here," roared Spitz, "who can shave thish dynasty,
and shay 'Tooral--'? No! ---- it! I mean 'Trularlooral--'" but
he, too, lurched hopelessly forward.
"No one can say 'Tooral-looral--'" muttered Fritz; and, grasping
Spitz in despair, they both rolled under the table.
How long we lay there, Heaven knows! I was awakened by Spitz
playing the garden hose on me. He was booted and spurred, with
Fritz by his side. The King was lying on a bench, saying feebly:
"Blesh you, my chillen."
"By politely acceding to Black Michael's request to 'try our one-
and-six sherry,' he has been brought to this condition," said Spitz
bitterly. "It's a trick to keep him from being crowned. In this
country if the King is crowned while drunk, the kingdom instantly
reverts to a villain--no matter who.
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