MARK ON "ROYAL HONORS"
Mark and I were walking down the Linden, Berlin, when a royal carriage, easily distinguished for its well-known breed of horses and livery, passed us. When it drew near the "Foot Guards," a drum and fife corps and half a hundred soldiers, under a lieutenant, rushed out, stood at attention and made a frightful racket.
Mark remained glued to the spot at the first sound of the "royalist propaganda"—his description—and eyed the spectacle with a mixture of amazement and disgust written all over his genial face.
"That carriage was empty," he observed, after a lot of staring and pulling at his moustache.
"What's the difference? If it were full of princes there would be a void—somewhere," I replied.
"Thanks awfully," said Mark, impatiently, "I was once greeted by fife and drums and thought it the most tremendous honor ever paid to a writing person. And now I see they do as much for an empty carriage, when there is a coat of arms on the door.
"Yes, I got so inflated with the reverse of modesty when the boys in red were tickling the veal-skin for me and worked their merry flutes, I well nigh bust off the buttons of my Prince Albert. It happened in Ottawa when I was visiting the Governor General, the Mar-
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