on the ball.'
'Oh, ah!' said the King.
The first golf lesson ever seen in the kingdom of Oom had begun.
* * * * *
Up on the terrace, meanwhile, in the little group of courtiers and
officials, a whispered consultation was in progress. Officially, the
King's unfortunate love affair was supposed to be a strict secret. But
you know how it is. These things get about. The Grand Vizier tells the
Lord High Chamberlain; the Lord High Chamberlain whispers it in
confidence to the Supreme Hereditary Custodian of the Royal Pet Dog;
the Supreme Hereditary Custodian hands it on to the Exalted Overseer of
the King's Wardrobe on the understanding that it is to go no farther;
and, before you know where you are, the varlets and scurvy knaves are
gossiping about it in the kitchens, and the Society journalists have
started to carve it out on bricks for the next issue of Palace
Prattlings.
'The long and short of it is,' said the Exalted Overseer of the King's
Wardrobe, 'we must cheer him up.'
There was a murmur of approval. In those days of easy executions it was
no light matter that a monarch should be a prey to gloom.
'But how?' queried the Lord High Chamberlain.
'I know,' said the Supreme Hereditary Custodian of the Royal Pet Dog.
'Try him with the minstrels.'
'Here! Why us?' protested the leader of the minstrels.
'Don't be silly!' said the Lord High Chamberlain. 'It's for your good
just as much as ours. He was asking only last night why he never got
any music nowadays. He told me to find out whether you supposed he paid
you simply to eat and sleep, because if so he knew what to do about
it.'
'Oh, in that case!' The leader of the minstrels started nervously.
Collecting his assistants and tip-toeing down the garden, he took up
his stand a few feet in Merolchazzar's rear, just as that much-enduring
monarch, after twenty-five futile attempts, was once more addressing
his stone.
Lyric writers in those days had not reached the supreme pitch of
excellence which has been produced by modern musical comedy. The art
was in its infancy then, and the best the minstrels could do was
this--and they did it just as Merolchazzar, raising the hoe with
painful care, reached the top of his swing and started down:
'Oh, tune the string and let us sing
Our godlike, great, and glorious King!
He's a bear! He's a bear! He's a bear!'
There were sixteen more verses, touching on their ruler's prowess in
the realms of sport and war, but they were not destined to be sung on
that circuit. King Merolchazzar jumped like a stung bullock, lifted his
head, and missed the globe for the twenty-sixth time. He spun round on
the minstrels, who were working pluckily through their song of praise:
'Oh, may his triumphs never cease!
He has the strength of ten!
First in war, first in peace,
