“I don’t know whether you happen to have read many books of African travel, Mr. Rokesmith?” said R. W.
“I have read several.”
“Well, you know, there’s usually a King George, or a King Boy, or a King Sambo, or a King Bill, or Bull, or Rum, or Junk, or whatever name the sailors may have happened to give him.”
“Where?” asked Rokesmith.
“Anywhere. Anywhere in Africa, I mean. Pretty well everywhere, I may say; for black kings are cheap—and I think,”—said R. W. , with an apologetic air, “nasty.”
“I am much of your opinion, Mr. Wilfer. You were going to say—?”
“I was going to say, the king is generally dressed in a London hat only, or a Manchester pair of braces, or one epaulette, or an uniform coat with his legs in the sleeves, or something of that kind.”
“Just so,” said the Secretary.
“In confidence, I assure you, Mr. Rokesmith,” observed the cheerful cherub, “that when more of my family were at home and to be provided for, I used to remind myself immensely of that king. You have no idea, as a single man, of the difficulty I have had in wearing more than one good article at a time.”
“I can easily believe it, Mr. Wilfer.”
“I only mention it,” said R. W. in the warmth of his heart, “as a proof of the amiable, delicate, and considerate affection of my daughter Bella. If she had been a little spoilt, I couldn’t have thought so very much of it, under the circumstances. But no, not a bit. And she is so very pretty! I hope you agree with me in finding her very pretty, Mr. Rokesmith?”