All these folks came busling in and many were the pleasant and curious garbs they sported, pleeted trousers, full puffy trousers, thin trousers tied under the boot, not to mention vegetated wastcoats or no wastcoats at all with very fancy shirts like ladys blouses, and all wore or carried hats such as were never I’m sure seen in Dunns, which is a hat shop. “This is Mr. Harold Withersq,” now cried the head teacher when they had all entered, “whom our enemys Emilian Boom and company have chosed to heap insults on seeing he was a stranger. His unckle Burt is dead and has left him a good bit of money. And now he has gone and written a most wonderful poem. Our good sonnet teacher is at this moment speaking on the phone to the Minister of Education at Buckingham Palace to ask him if he will have him made our new head poet.” “Here here,” muttered the gathering, at which the eyes of Mr. Withersq lighted up and he gave a fresh grip on Selia’s hand. The sonnet teacher now came from the telephone. “Well?” asked the head teacher. “What does the minister say?” “Oh, he’s popped up stairs to ask His Majesty the King please to make Mr. Withersq head poet. I told him that Mr. Withersquashes unckle Burt is dead, so I expect it will be all right.” By this he meant that money talks. Tinkle, tink, the telephone called out. The sonnet teacher went back to it. All the assembly had their ears out for what he said on it. “Hello? Oh yes, its the school of poetry. Yes. Oh, you say the King will be very glad to have a fresh poet? That’s good. I see. Goodbye!” As he put down the hear-piece, a gruff cheer burst from the poets filling the room. The head teacher held up his hand. Silence followed. “His Majesty the King says he could well do with a fresh poet,” he announced, “and I am sure you will all agree that our new friend Mr. Withersquash is a very suitable one for the job. I therefore here and now award him the head poet of England. Three cheers for him. Go it, boys!” “Ah ah” they screemed. “Hurrah-hurrah-hurrah! That is charming!” All the young lady poets and all the young gentlemen poets jumped for joy because the new poet had sprung from their school. The teachers and classes now drew in a ring round our hero clasping his Selia. The old lady servant who had opened the door to our heros now entered bearing a golden hat-box which she presented with a touching curtsy to the head teacher. He soon whipped off the lid, and drew forth an object mufled in crinkeld paper. “Ooh!” breathed all present, sucking in their breaths. Off came the crinkeld paper, and the bald bearded teacher drew forth a sweet little crown, all made of leaves, and bending over, slipped it on top of Mr. Withersquashes head. “That is until his dear Majesty the King has time to ask him to the Palace,” said he and kissed him a lot very sloppy and would have kist Selia but Mr. Withersq said not.