The King was pacing the floor, grinding and scratching his palms together, and muttering angrily to himself. He was an enormous man with a puffy, red face, a snub nose, and three chins, and he wheezed as he walked. His hair stood up on end all over his head as if it was trying to fly off. His fat legs went back and forth in a kind of tripping run, and his fat hands rubbed and scratched and slapped each other in a perfect frenzy. “What, what!” he cried, never halting for an instant. “What’s the matter, what’s the matter?” “Stop a minute, King Fatchaps!” said the Fool. “Here’s a madman come to cure your itching palms! Ha, ha!” “What do you say? What do you say?” said the King, dancing along, back and forth. “It is true, your majesty,” said I. “You can cure me? What do you say? You’re an impostor! They’re all impostors! Can you cure me? Why don’t you do it then?” “I understand,” said I, “that a reward is offered--” “Well, well? What of it?” said the King, wheezing and puffing. “Half of my dead leaves! What of it?” “The fact is,” said I, “we should prefer gold or silver.” “Impudence!” cried the King. “Gold? Silver? What do you mean? I never heard of them.” “He’ll take the leaves, never fear,” said the dwarf. “Oh, yes.” “Take ’em!” cried the King. “Who is the beautiful lady? Take ’em? Dead leaves or nothing! Take ’em or leave ’em!” It was plain that a fortune of dead leaves was as good as any other, if you only thought it so, and if these people thought it so, as they evidently did, I might as well take it. “I am satisfied, your majesty,” said I, “and if you will hold out your palm, I will work the cure.” _The Perfection Cream Is Rubbed into the Itching Palm_ The King held out his left hand as he passed, and I trotted along beside him, and drawing from my pouch one of my little jars, I applied to the King’s palm, with my fingers, a small portion of my salve, rubbing it in as well as I could; and then I ran around to his other side, and did the same for his other hand. It was rather difficult, considering that I had to trot along beside him as he tripped back and forth across the carpet. “What, what, what! Bless my soul!” cried the King, stopping suddenly. “It feels better!” I bowed and smiled, and Buffo the Fool said, “Mad, old Fatchaps! Both of you mad!” “Speak when you’re spoken to!” said the King. “Who asked your opinion? Pfoo! pfoo! I haven’t any breath left! Not another word out of you, sir! I know when I’m cured! I’m no fool, I’m no fool!” “Oh, no, not at all!” said the Fool. “Here, you!” said the King. “Take this young man and his wife and feed ’em, and let ’em sleep in the palace. I’ll settle with ’em in the morning, if the itching’s gone. I’m no fool.” “Not my wife,--my sister,” said I, bowing. “What do you say?” cried the King. “Oh, that’s different!” He bowed before my sister, and kissed her hand very respectfully.