"Yes," he went on, "if he were to appear again my plans would be ruined, absolutely ruined. Let's see, what date is it?" He turned and glanced at the calendar on his desk. "Ach! the Second of June! Well, say in a month's time all should be quite ready. Richard must not appear again."
"Of course, Your Excellency," agreed 'Johann'. "Certainly if he is dead it will save us a lot of trouble. Does Your Excellency want enquiries made? Perhaps a few trusted members of the secret service? We cannot afford to let anyone think we are too interested."
"Your judgment is always excellent, Johann. See to it. Also, I will not be needing you tomorrow -- you may have the day off."
'Johann' bowed respectfully and went out. A good fellow, thought the Baron. Thank goodness that's over, thought the Yellow Dandelion, How I don't push his face in for him I really don't know. He sighed, and trotted off downstairs to see his bicycle was in good order. He would need it to get down to Fizzling Towers.
He got reasonably good holidays and dropped in at Fizzling Towers about once a week. He had ·told the Baron that Simons was an old friend of his and quite trustworthy and that the 'pretender' was certainly not there and had not been there. And he passed on a complaint about the search that had been carried out, and this was the real reason why-they had been left in peace'down there . The Captain had got such a telling off from the Central Committee that he took the greatest care to keep well away from the big castle in the hollow.
So the Yellow Dandelion could go up and down with a genuine official permit signed by. the Baron himself without causing the slightest suspicion. And a very nice little plot was being formed to wreck the Baron's plans.
REVOLUTION IN FLOPDOODLE
Chapter Twelve
Nothing lasts forever. The Baron's happy plans, the Yellow Dandelion's happy plans, the pleasant life at Fizzling Towers were only an interlude that had to end sometime, and in this chapter you will learn exactly how and what the result was.
That June was one of the hottest in living memory in the country. Wells dried up, crops died, the fruit remained small and tasteless, cattle stood panting in whatever shade they could find, and the sunstroke casualties were the highest for years. The thermometer was hardly ever below 35 in the shade, and was frequently much higher. Although many more people lost their tempers, executions first rose and then stopped altogether for two reasons: the executioner could not stand the heat and went mad and no one wanted to take his place, and the heat was too much for the Guillotine Puller, which blew up with a tremendous bang when it was taking the Guillotine to Hargleton, killing both its driver and the replacement executioner in the process and badly damaging the Guillotine itself. A new Puller was, of course, ordered but took some time to make. The roads were scorching, and the tar oozed out in the sun; the passing vehicles blew the dust up in great clouds, which got into people' s eyes,. mouths, noses, ears and throats, until they began to wish for enormous thunderstorms and vast cloud bursts
The Baron's unpopularity increased greatly, as everyone rather felt, quite unjustly, that he should do something more about the shortage of water. Countryfolk said that "it all came or having revolutions and deposing the rightful king", and a huge procession marched in spite of the heat to the capital to demand a Restoration, for, they said, "not another drop of rain will fall in Flopdoodle untll the true king sits on the throne of his fathers."t To prove that the Clerk of the Weather does not take part in politics there was a slight shower that very evening, but that was about it.
At Fizzling Towers they enjoyed the unaccustomed heat. His Majesty. Quangle and the two boys spent some of the time exploring secret passages and also a very interesting and useful little room where people had hidden during earlier periods of unrest, and priests during the Religious Wars. In the morning, late afternoon and evening, they were able to go outside and enjoy the sunshine when it was not too hot. The grass was burnt almost black; the flowers drooped on their stems. It really was too much of a good thing. But they had a pleasant lake in the grounds, with a tree-covered island in the middle. a bit like the old Royal Fishpond but much larger (it was a half a kilometre in length), and in this they bathed a lot as it was too big to be much dried up and the clear fresh water was refereshing. Only this made the weather bearable, and even enjoyable. The squelch of the mud between the toes, the (agreeably warmed) water which was neither too hot to be refreshing, nor too cold to allow them to stay in as long as they liked, the cries and plish-plash of the waterfowl all made it a place of delight.
The Yellow Dandelion was delighted to get away from the stuffy Capital and rest in the quiet of the country. Their plot was ready; they were waiting for the Baron to act first.
************
On the night of the 29th June the Yellow Dandelion awoke with a start from a light doze. He had been down at Fizzling Towers that day, a Sunday, and was tired; yet he could not sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly, but he was far too hot and the air seemed heavy and oppressive. At last he got out of bed, strode over to the window, and flung it open. The air outside was hot like that of a vast oven, and the dust was everywhere. There was not a breath of wind, only a dead calm. He turned away with a sigh, when a bright glare lit up the room before him with, a bluish light. A few seconds later the first shots of celestial artillery thundered out as if a great battle was about to break out in the skies. Another flash and roll of thunder, and another, and another and another, until the thunder throbbed like a cosmic drum beating for war, a war to shatter nations. He shook himself sharply to remove such ridiculous fantasties - war indeed! Revolution was bad enough!
As he listened the thunder exploded directly overhead with a deafening crack, and he thought the Palace had probably been struck. Revolution? But it was only a storm.
The noise rapidly died away in the distance and then came the first big drops of rain splashing on the window-sill. Yes, the long drought had been broken at last. As the rain settled down to a steady hiss, the Yellow Dandelion pulled himself together and got back into bed. It had got cooler sharply -- he was shivering. Rain - it was already gurgling in the gutters. Would the Baron now go ahead? With this question in his mind he went to sleep.
When he was wakened in the morning it was still raining. It splashed on house, garden, fruit-trees, vegetables, drive, lawn, hedges and gardener alike; it soaked into the ground; it poured down the sides of the roads in brown frothing streams.
After breakfast he was called to the Baron's study.
"Look!" said the Baron in gleeful German as 'Johann' shut the door behind him. "The rain has come! How pretty it looks! Johann, it is almost time to act now. Tomorrow we shall seize the other three leaders and have them executed at once! I have found an executioner and they have served their purpose. They must go!"
This was an unexpected turn of events. But 'Johann' merely said: "At last, Your Highness? This is good news."
"Thank. you, Johann." He leant. forward sharply. "Is there any more news of Richard? If he were to turn up now ...." he said in a low voice. "Is there?"
"No, Your Excellency, no word. But remember. he can always be .... shall we say .... removed."
"Of course, of course, Johann. You think; of everything. I control the police and can manage the army if I announce that Richard has been murdered by those treacherous dogs who dared to oppose the Revolution. And there' s one thing! They really'have kidnapped,him - even if he is still alive!"
"Your Highness has a most comprehensive grasp of the situation" said the Yellow Dandelion solemnly.
"You flatter me," said the Baron with a smirk. He was absolutely right.
"Not at all, Your Imperial Serenity. I mean it." What fibs I do tell, he thought to himself.
"Well then!" declared the Baron, "that will be all right. Just have these papers typed will you? You may go."
The Yellow Dandelion bowed; and went out. He went to his office, took up the telephone, and rang up Fizzling Towers.
"Hullo? Simons, is that you?
I'm awfully sorry to disturb you,. old chap, but I left a fountain pen down there with you on Sunday - yesterday, in fact. Would you mind posting it to me, today if possible - I'm quite stuck without it. A black pen with a gold top - quite small. You will? Thank you so much! So sorry for bothering you. Good bye!"
Simons put down the telephone slowly. It had come at last. He glided into the dining-room, where the Royal Family were all. having breakfast, and addressed Quangle
"Excuse me, Your Lordship, could I have a private word with you?"
"Certainly," said Quangle, and he got up, excused himself, and went out of the room atter the butler. "Well, Simons?"
"The Yellow Dandelion has just phoned."
"Has he indeed?"
"He said, in code of course, that he will call for the young King tonight, and that it's rather urgent. I got the impression that the Baron is moving rather fast."
"Good work, Simons," Quangle said quietly, "What time is he to be ready, and did. he say anything else?"
"No nothing, Your Lordship -- he didn't even say when he would get here, only that he would be calling."
"All right, I'll see to it."
He went back to his omelette, which was getting cold.
***********
The Yellow Dandelion drove swiftly. The car sent up huge sprays from its buckled wheels; and the aged windscreen wipers groaned and squeaked. Richard sat beside him looking tense and somewhat tired. It was a risk, but it was a risk worth taking to get back at the Baron. Unexpectedly the Yellow Dandelion swung the car off the road into a side-road, where he stopped with a jerk.
"We get out here," he said, "The procession will meet us here in five minutes. They will take you into the city· in a coach. Don't worry, there's a man who will do all the talking. I must go now. I've got to get back to the Baron. Don't worry at all ... remember! He tells me everything and I'll see you don't come to any harm. It's only for a few days."
They got out and stood under a tall elm, until there was a loud noise ol men shouting, which drew closer until Richard could see torches and flares in the distance. Soon the procession came into view. It seemed very long, but the man at the front was evidently in charge, and when he saw the pair by the roadside he shouted "Halt!" and the procession did halt, with remarkable docility.. The man ran across the road. "'He is there? Give the password!" he gasped.
"Almonds," replied the Yellow Dandelion easily. "Give the counter-password!"
''Nuts!" said the leader of the procession.
"Well, is all going properly?"
"It is that," came the reply, "and there's the coach for Your Majesty," he added, turning to Richard, "You can get in any time. I hope it's comfortable; we didn't have much time to fix it up, but it looks good."
"Sorry," replied the Yellow Dandelion, "but I was only told this morning. Well, good-bye Your Majesty, and:good luck! I'll see you soon."
"Good-bye," said Richard. "You have been brilliant."
"This way, Your Majesty" and the man took Richard, who smiled. and nodded happily – although he didn't feel altogether happy – at everyone, along to the coach, and handed him in amidst a lot of cheering. It was very dark and smelt of damp horse, and the bench seat was most. uncomfortable and felt as if it. had been stuffed with rusty nails and broken jam-jars. He sat down carefully on the best bit he could find, and looked out of the window. A man in uniform rode at each corner or the coach, but most of the others seemed to be in plain clothes, as far as he could see them. He was just bringing his head in again when the coach lurched forward. violently and. he was thrown off the seat on to the floor. There was a large puddle on it where rain had come through the roof, and he was rather annoyed. However, he picked himself up and sat down on the seat. again, clinging on as best he could, for the coach swayed from side to side in a most unpleasant fashion.
It seemed like six hours to him before they came to a bend on top of a hill, and he saw below him the lights ot Flopford, but it was really only about forty minutes. The, procession increased their efforts, singing the Flopdudlian National Anthem, "Here's a Health unto His Majesty" and "Rule. Flopdudlia". From time to time they stopped singing, and instead shouted "Hurrah for King Richard V of Flopdoodle - Long live the King" and then cheered wildly. But as they rattled down the hillside Richard had. a nasty fluttery feeling in his stomach, which was not exactly helped by the fact that the coach had now discovered an unpleasant circular motion which felt just like that of small ferry in a howling gale.
At last they were down, and Richard felt a little better. The coach however then came across some of the boulders which the Revolutionaries had been firing during the siege, one of which scraped along the bottom, another nearly made a hole in the floor, and a third struck the rear near-side wheel and cracked it, though it happily did not come off. They rattled up to the main gate, which had been closed for the night.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came the challenge from the sentry and the watch. "Open tor 'the King – Richard V ot Flopdoodle has been rescued!" called out the leader of the procession, "The King is returned to his Capital."
The watch took up the cry.
"The King?" they exclaimed, "The King rescued!"
Richard felt he should do something, He put his head out ot the window again. "Yes," he cried, "Am I not the King?"
"It is he, it is he!" shouted everyone very grammatically. "Long live the King of Flopdoodle!" There was a loud clanking as the gate was opened.
"Amen," murmured Richard dryly as all along the wall the men started to shout "The King, The King, Long Live the King!"
The portcullis rattled up.
"Let His Majesty pass," cried the sentry, coming smartly to the salute, and the procession advanced into the city. This time Richard was prepared, and hung on tight. It was as well, as the coach jerked bumpily and wobbled over the cobblestones. while from every side people rushed out to greet their king. Cheering wildly, they scrambled, struggled, punched, pulled, kicked and bit each other to get near him. It was just like a football match. The four mounted cavalrymen kept them from getting too close, and the procession swept on, on past the Imperial Bank, past the Flopdudlian Museum, past Revolution Square where the Guillotine stood, silent and grim, past the Grand Terminus of the Flopford & South Coast & Eastern Districts' Grand Trunk Transinsular Railway, now no more than a burnt out shell, along High Street, through Piffiloffsky Square, and up the East Road to the Palace.
The Baron happened to be still at the Palace, having a conference with the other three conspirators. As he looked round at the other three, with their stupid faces, he thought happily that it would be their last conference; on the morrow they would all three be introduced to the insatiable Guillotine. They had come to a pause. The Earl was drumming on the table. The Baron opened his mouth to speak.
"Comrades – ," he began. But what was that outlandish noise? It sounded like men shouting. The Baron looked at the Earl. He had stopped drunming and was listening. They all looked at one another. The intelligent steel magnate, whom the Grand Duchess thought quite attractive, leapt up and went over to the window. Pulling back the heavy curtains he looked out. The window did overlook the front of the Palace, but for a lew moments he could see nothing. Then his eyes got more used to it, and he could catch a faint glimpse of something in the distance at the foot of the East Road.
"Why, it's - it's a procession!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"A procession!" snapped the Baron, "What kind of procession?"
"Well it looks," murmured Sir Sidney, "rather like a torchlight procession."
"Not that!" quacked the Baron impatiently, restraining his temper with difficulty. "What do they want? Are you sure they're coming here?"
"They're coming here all right, and shouting too, but I can't quite hear what they shout. Hush a moment, please."
There was a strained silence in the small room with the large mahogany table.
"Why they're singing!" exclaimed Sir Sidney at last. "It sounds
like the National Anthem. No, it' s stopping, and they are shouting instead. Good Heavens! It must be the King!"
"Ze KING!" exclaimed the Baron, his accent overcoming him again. "Did you say ze King?" he repeated more calmly, and he bounced up from his seat and tottered to the window. "EEM - possible!"
There was no mistake. There was the procession – now almost at the junction of East and West roads. He flung up the window. Faintly the sound of men chanting drifted to his ears.
"Hurrah for King Richard the Fifth of Flopdoodle!"
With a moan the Baron toppled on the floor in a swoon of despair.
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