With that he picked
up the weapon and stalked away.
A few minutes later he was on his way to the Castle grounds, accompanied
by the short-legged Mr. Hobbs, who, from time to time, was forced to
remove his tight-fitting cap to mop a hot, exasperated brow, so swift
was the pace set by long-legs. The broadsword reposed calmly on a desk
under the nose of a properly impressed young person named Stokes,
cashier.
Hobbs led him through the great Park gates and up to the lodge of Jacob
Fraasch, the venerable high steward of the grounds. Here, to King's utter
disgust, he was booked as a plain Cook's tourist and mechanically
advised to pay strict attention to the rules which would be explained to
him by the guide.
"Cook's tourist, eh?" muttered King wrathfully as they ambled down the
shady path together. He looked with disparaging eye upon the plain
little chap beside him.
"It's no disgrace," growled Hobbs, redder than ever. "You're inside the
grounds and you've got to obey the rules, same as any tourist. Right
this way, sir; we'll take a turn just inside the wall. Now, on your
left, ladies and--ahem!--I should say--ahem!--sir, you may see the
first turret ever built on the wall. It is over four hundred years old.
On the right, we have--"
"See here, Hobbs," said King, stopping short, "I'm damned if I'll let
you lecture me as if I were a gang of hayseeds from Oklahoma.
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