The Prince and the Pauper, Mark Twain [fantasy novels to read .TXT] 📗

come again, the Ruffler said,

firmly, but with an accent of good nature—

 

“Drop it, boy, ‘tis not wise, nor well. Humour thy fancy, if thou must,

but choose some other title.”

 

A tinker shrieked out a suggestion—

 

“Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!”

 

The title ‘took,’ at once, every throat responded, and a roaring shout

went up, of—

 

“Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!” followed by

hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.

 

“Hale him forth, and crown him!”

 

“Robe him!”

 

“Sceptre him!”

 

“Throne him!”

 

These and twenty other cries broke out at once! and almost before the

poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned with a tin basin,

robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a barrel, and sceptred with the

tinker’s soldering-iron. Then all flung themselves upon their knees

about him and sent up a chorus of ironical wailings, and mocking

supplications, whilst they swabbed their eyes with their soiled and

ragged sleeves and aprons—

 

“Be gracious to us, O sweet King!”

 

“Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble Majesty!”

 

“Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!”

 

“Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of

sovereignty!”

 

“Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat the dirt

and be ennobled!”

 

“Deign to spit upon us, O Sire, that our children’s children may tell of

thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy for ever!”

 

But the humorous tinker made the ‘hit’ of the evening and carried off the

honours. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the King’s foot, and was

indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for a rag to paste

over the place upon his face which had been touched by the foot, saying

it must be preserved from contact with the vulgar air, and that he should

make his fortune by going on the highway and exposing it to view at the

rate of a hundred shillings a sight. He made himself so killingly funny

that he was the envy and admiration of the whole mangy rabble.

 

Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch’s eyes; and

the thought in his heart was, “Had I offered them a deep wrong they could

not be more cruel—yet have I proffered nought but to do them a kindness

—and it is thus they use me for it!”

 

Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps.

 

The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their

march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and

a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the company; some

were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were

gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.

 

The Ruffler put ‘Jack’ in Hugo’s charge, with some brief instructions,

and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also

warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.

 

After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat.

The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. They

grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and

insult passengers along the highway. This showed that they were awaking

to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in which

their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the

road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk

back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of

the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did

not take the hedges, too.

 

By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home

while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to

furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife and her

daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and

made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and

bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer

and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously

when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of the

daughters who resented some of their familiarities. When they took their

leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of

the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the

authorities.

 

About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind

a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An hour was allowed

for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village

at different points to ply their various trades—‘Jack’ was sent with

Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching for

opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none—so he finally

said—

 

“I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will beg.”

 

“WE, forsooth! Follow thy trade—it befits thee. But I will not beg.”

 

“Thou’lt not beg!” exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise.

“Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?”

 

“What dost thou mean?”

 

“Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?”

 

“I? Thou idiot!”

 

“Spare thy compliments—thy stock will last the longer. Thy father says

thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will

even make so bold as to SAY he lied,” scoffed Hugo.

 

“Him YOU call my father? Yes, he lied.”

 

“Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy

amusement, not thy hurt. An’ I tell him this, he will scorch thee finely

for it.”

 

“Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him.”

 

“I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment.

Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out

of one’s way to invite them. But a truce to these matters; I believe

your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he DOTH lie, upon

occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. A

wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for nought. But

come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we

busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?”

 

The King said, impatiently—

 

“Have done with this folly—you weary me!”

 

Hugo replied, with temper—

 

“Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I

will tell you what you WILL do. You will play decoy whilst I beg.

Refuse, an’ you think you may venture!”

 

The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said, interrupting—

 

“Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in a

fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your

knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery were in

your belly, and say, ‘Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be

friendless; o’ God’s name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful

look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little

penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!’—

and mind you, keep you ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his

penny, else shall you rue it.”

 

Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and

reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he

sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the

dirt, in seeming agony.

 

“O, dear, O dear!” cried the benevolent stranger, “O poor soul, poor

soul, how he doth suffer! There—let me help thee up.”

 

“O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman—but it

giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother there

will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be

upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me

to my sorrows.”

 

“A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature”—and he fumbled

in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. “There, poor lad, take

them and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy

stricken brother to yon house, where—”

 

“I am not his brother,” said the King, interrupting.

 

“What! not his brother?”

 

“Oh, hear him!” groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. “He denies

his own brother—and he with one foot in the grave!”

 

“Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For shame!

—and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy brother, who

is he, then?”

 

“A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your pocket

likewise. An’ thou would’st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his

shoulders and trust Providence for the rest.”

 

But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up and off

like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry

lustily as he went. The King, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his

own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace

until he was out of harm’s reach. He took the first road that offered,

and soon put the village behind him. He hurried along, as briskly as he

could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder

for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of

security took their place. He recognised, now, that he was hungry, and

also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to

speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. His clothes were against

him.

 

He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in

the way of like treatment no more. But hunger is pride’s master; so, as

the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here

he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised

arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.

 

The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch

laboured slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat

down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his

sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the

empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At intervals

he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw

nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless

drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that

made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light—always

far away, apparently—almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of

a sheep’s bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of

the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a

mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over

viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made

the little King feel that all life and activity were far removed from

him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the centre