Again the wind instruments were wound, the brass band and retinue took its devious course along the corridors, and the music and marching gradually died away. This took about twenty minutes.
"Now that we are alone," said I to the Master of Ceremonies, "let's have a reasonable talk."
"O Nephew of—!" he began.
"Never mind the astronomy," I broke in, "but proceed to business."
"Yes, Sire," he answered in a terrible fright, no doubt expecting the bowstring.
"Don't be a fool!" said I. "I'm not going to hurt you. Stand up and have some style about you!"
So he did, somewhat reassured.
"Now," I said, "I'm tired of all this fuss. Bring me a razor, and I 'll shave myself."
"But, your Serene Imperialness—"
"See here!" I said positively; "there's not a hearer around. Just drop the titles and call me Mudjahoy or I 'll have you beheaded!"
"Well, Mudjahoy," said the Master of Ceremonies, easily, "I'm afraid that it can't be done!"
"Can't be done? Am I the Emperor of this place, or—what am I?"
"Why, of course, Mudjahoy, you 're Emperor, and all that," he answered, with an ease of manner that surprised me; "but then there are a great many things to be considered."
"Well, go on," said I; "but I'd like to have this thing settled one way or the other. Speak freely."
"It's just this way," said the Master of Ceremonies; "what would you do with the Chief Barber?"
"Do with the Chief Barber? Why, nothing. He could do with himself."
