"
"That," we replied, "is us all over, Mabel."
"What I need at the moment, however, is a golf story."
"By a singular coincidence, ours is a golf story."
"Ha! say you so?" said the editor, a flicker of interest passing over
his finely-chiselled features. "Then you may let me see it."
He kicked us in the face, and we withdrew.
THE STORY
On the broad terrace outside his palace, overlooking the fair expanse
of the Royal gardens, King Merolchazzar of Oom stood leaning on the low
parapet, his chin in his hand and a frown on his noble face. The day
was fine, and a light breeze bore up to him from the garden below a
fragrant scent of flowers. But, for all the pleasure it seemed to give
him, it might have been bone-fertilizer.
The fact is, King Merolchazzar was in love, and his suit was not
prospering. Enough to upset any man.
Royal love affairs in those days were conducted on the correspondence
system. A monarch, hearing good reports of a neighbouring princess,
would despatch messengers with gifts to her Court, beseeching an
interview.
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