Mr. Scobell eyed him doubtfully. His Highness did not appear to him to be treating the inaugural ceremony with that reserved dignity which we like to see in princes on these occasions. Mr. Scobell was a business man. He wanted his money's worth. His idea of a Prince of Mervo was something statuesquely aloof, something--he could not express it exactly--on the lines of the illustrations in the Zenda stories in the magazines--about eight feet high and shinily magnificent, something that would give the place a tone. That was what he had had in his mind when he sent for John. He did not want a cheerful young man in a soft hat and a flannel suit who looked as if at any moment he might burst into a college yell. General Poineau, meanwhile, had embarked on the address of welcome. John regarded him thoughtfully. "I can see," he said to Mr. Scobell, "that the gentleman is making a good speech, but what is he saying? That is what gets past me." "He is welcoming Your Highness," said Mr. Crump, the linguist, "in the name of the people of Mervo." "Who, I notice, have had the bully good sense to stay in bed. I guess they knew that the Boy Orator would do all that was necessary. He hasn't said anything about a bite of breakfast, has he? Has his address happened to work around to the subject of shredded wheat and shirred eggs yet? That's the part that's going to make a hit with me." "There'll be breakfast at my villa, Your Highness," said Mr. Scobell. "My automobile is waiting along there." The General reached his peroration, worked his way through it, and finished with a military clash of heels and a salute. The band rattled off the national anthem once more. "Now, what?" said John, turning to Mr. Scobell. "Breakfast?" "I guess you'd better say a few words to them, Your Highness; they'll expect it." "But I can't speak the language, and they can't understand English. The thing'll be a stand-off." "Crump will hand it to 'em. Here, Crump." "Sir?" "Line up and shoot His Highness's remarks into 'em." "Yes, sir. "It's all very well for you, Crump," said John. "You probably enjoy this sort of thing. I don't. I haven't felt such a fool since I sang 'The Maiden's Prayer' on Tremont Street when I was joining the frat. Are you ready? No, it's no good. I don't know what to say." "Tell 'em you're tickled to death," advised Mr. Scobell anxiously. John smiled in a friendly manner at the populace. Then he coughed. "Gentlemen," he said--"and more particularly the sport on my left who has just spoken his piece whose name I can't remember--I thank you for the warm welcome you have given me. If it is any satisfaction to you to know that it has made me feel like thirty cents, you may have that satisfaction. Thirty is a liberal estimate." "'His Highness is overwhelmed by your loyal welcome. He thanks you warmly,'" translated Mr. Crump, tactfully.