The response came with such a thundergust from the motley crew that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little king's face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined his head and said with grave simplicity—
"I thank you, my good people."
This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature—
"Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humor 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!"
