"Resistance is useless," said Clarence. "The moment I have plotted and planned for has come. Your troops, worn out with fighting, mere shadows of themselves, have fallen an easy prey. An hour ago your camp was silently surrounded by patrols of Boy Scouts, armed with catapults and hockey-sticks. One rush and the battle was over. Your entire army, like yourself, are prisoners." "The diggids they are!" said the Prince blankly. "England, my England!" cried Clarence, his face shining with a holy patriotism. "England, thou art free! Thou hast risen from the ashes of the dead self. Let the nations learn from this that it is when apparently crushed that the Briton is to more than ever be feared." "Thad's bad grabbar," said the Prince critically. "It isn't," said Clarence with warmth. "It _is_, I tell you. Id's a splid idfididive." Clarence's eyes flashed fire. "I don't want any of your beastly cheek," he said. "Scout-Master Wagstaff, remove your prisoner." "All the sabe," said the Prince, "id _is_ a splid idfididive." Clarence pointed silently to the door. "And you doe id is," persisted the Prince. "And id's spoiled your big sbeech. Id--" "Come on, can't you," interrupted Scout-Master Wagstaff. "I _ab_ cubbing, aren't I? I was odly saying--" "I'll give you such a whack over the shin with this hockey-stick in a minute!" said the Scout-Master warningly. "Come _on_!" The Prince went. Chapter 11 CLARENCE--THE LAST PHASE The brilliantly-lighted auditorium of the Palace Theatre. Everywhere a murmur and stir. The orchestra is playing a selection. In the stalls fair women and brave men converse in excited whispers. One catches sentences here and there. "Quite a boy, I believe!" "How perfectly sweet!" "'Pon honour, Lady Gussie, I couldn't say. Bertie Bertison, of the Bachelors', says a feller told him it was a clear thousand." "Do you hear that? Mr. Bertison says that this boy is getting a thousand a week." "Why, that's more than either of those horrid generals got." "It's a lot of money, isn't it?" "Of course, he did save the country, didn't he?" "You may depend they wouldn't give it him if he wasn't worth it." "Met him last night at the Duchess's hop. Seems a decent little chap. No side and that, if you know what I mean. Hullo, there's his number!" The orchestra stops. The number 7 is displayed. A burst of applause, swelling into a roar as the curtain rises. A stout man in crinkled evening-dress walks on to the stage.