Will—you—listen, Marion!”
“The Prince of Monaco, dear? Yes. He has caught another fish or something of that sort, I think. Yes. A fish with ‘telescope eyes,’ the paper says. And very convenient too, I should imagine.”
Mr. Scobell thumped the table.
“I’ve got it. I’ve found out what’s the matter with this darned place. I see why the Casino hasn’t struck its gait.”
“
“Nonsense! That’s the whole idea of the place, that it should be different. People are sick and tired of having their money gathered in by seedy-looking Dagoes in second-hand morning coats. We give ‘em variety. It’s not the Casino that’s wrong: it’s the darned island. What’s the use of a republic to a place like this? I’m not saying that you don’t want a republic for a live country that’s got its way to make in the world; but for a little runt of a sawn-off, hobo, one-night stand like this you gotta have something picturesque, something that’ll advertise the place, something that’ll give a jolt to folks’ curiosity, and make ‘em talk! There’s this Monaco gook. He snoops around in his yacht, digging up telescope-eyed fish, and people talk about it. ‘Another darned fish,’ they say. ‘That’s the ‘steenth bite the Prince of Monaco has had this year.’ It’s like a soap advertisement. It works by suggestion. They get to thinking about the Prince and his pop-eyed fishes, and, first thing they know, they’ve packed their grips and come along to Monaco to have a peek at him. And when they’re there, it’s a safe bet they aren’t going back again without trying to get a mess of easy money from the Bank. That’s what this place wants. Whoever heard of this blamed Republic doing anything except eat and sleep? They used to have a prince here ‘way back in eighty- something. Well, I’m going to have him working at the old stand again, right away.”
Miss Scobell looked up from her paper, which she had been reading with absorbed interest throughout tins harangue.
“Dear?” she said enquiringly.
“I say I’m going to have him back again,” said Mr. Scobell, a little damped. “I wish you would listen.”
“I think you’re quite right, dear. Who?”
“The Prince. Do listen, Marion. The Prince of this island, His Highness, the Prince of Mervo. I’m going to send for him and put him on the throne again.”
“You can’t, dear. He’s dead.”
“I know he’s dead. You can’t faze me on the history of this place. He died in ninety-one. But before he died he married an American girl, and there’s a son, who’s in America now, living with his uncle. It’s the son I’m going to send for. I got it all from General Poineau. He’s a royalist. He’ll be tickled to pieces when Johnny comes marching home again. Old man Poineau told me all about it. The Prince married a girl called Westley, and then he was killed in an automobile accident, and his widow went back to America with the kid, to live with her brother. Poineau says he could lay his hand on him any time he pleased.”
“I hope you won’t do anything rash, dear,” said his sister comfortably. “I’m sure we don’t want any horrid revolution here, with people shooting and stabbing each other.”
“Revolution?” cried Mr. Scobell. “Revolution! Well, I should say nix! Revolution nothing. I’m the man with the big stick in Mervo. Pretty near every adult on this island is dependent on my Casino for his weekly envelope, and what I say goes—without argument. I want a prince, so I gotta have a prince, and if any gazook makes a noise like a man with a grouch, he’ll find himself fired.”
Miss Scobell turned to her paper again.
“Very well, dear,” she said. “Just as you please. I’m sure you know best.”
“Sure!” said her brother. “You’re a good guesser. I’ll go and beat up old man Poineau right away.”
CHAPTER III
JOHN
Ten days after Mr. Scobell’s visit to General Poineau, John, Prince of Mervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, was strolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of that outpost of civilization, Jersey City. He was a big young man, tall and large of limb. His shoulders especially were of the massive type expressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing line on the gridiron. He looked like one of nature’s center-rushes, and had, indeed, played in that position for Harvard during two strenuous seasons. His face wore an expression of invincible good-humor. He had a wide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes. One felt that he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if they did not like him.
As he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious. Sherlock Holmes—and possibly even Doctor Watson —would have deduced that he had something on his conscience.
At the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed to hesitate. Then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, he went in and pressed the button of the elevator.
Leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, and pushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, “Westley, Martin & Co.”
A stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers, stopped in astonishment.
“Hello, John Maude!” he cried.
The young man grinned.
“Say, where have you been? The old man’s been as mad as a hornet since he found you had quit without leave. He was asking for you just now.”
“I guess I’m up against it,” admitted John cheerfully.
“Where did you go yesterday?”
John put the thing to him candidly, as man to man.
