He came up to the tombstone, and on it he read, and Tony read, and all the courtiers read:—
“When Tony drinks the Blue Mountain’s milk
He shall wear a Sunday suit of silk.
He shall be tallest in all the Land,
And hold the town under his command.
He shall have greatness and we shall have grain;
Soon may it happen and long may he reign!
Hurrah.
H. T. Birkbeck.”
The King read this, and said—
“Well, I never!”
And all the courtiers said the same.
“Tony means Me,” said the King.
The courtiers said that of course it did.
“I am King Tony XXIII.,” said he.
And the courtiers said of course he was.
They all spoke at once like a chorus.
“I was christened Anthony, of course,” his restless Majesty went on, fidgeting with his gold collar; “but I know that my subjects have always spoken of me behind my back by the endearing diminutive.”
The courtiers assured the King that this was so.
“I suppose there’s no one else called Tony?”
