"A strange offence for such a child," said the Potentate.
"They often begin that sort of thing very early in life," said the jailer.
"And this fine gentleman," said the Potentate, looking in at the Prince, "what did he do?"
The jailer glanced at the number, and the report.
"Robbed hen-roosts," he said.
"He must have done a good deal of it to afford to dress so well," said the Potentate, passing on, and looking into other cells. "It seems to me that many of your prisoners are very young."
"It is best to take them young, my lord," said the jailer. "They are very hard to catch when they grow up."
The Potentate then looked in at the Jolly-cum-pop, and asked what was his offence.
"Conspiracy," was the answer.
"And where are the other conspirators?"
"There was only one," said the jailer.
Number Seventeen was the oldest of the courtiers.
"He appears to be an elderly man to have a grand mother," said the Potentate. "She must be very aged, and that makes it all the worse for him. I think he should be executed."
"Oh, no, my lord," cried the jailor. "I am assured that his crime was quite unintentional."
"Then he should be set free," said the Potentate.
"I mean to say," said the jailer, "that it was just enough intentional to cause him to be imprisoned here for a long time, but not enough to deserve execution."
