"Goin' to let me scrape out the maple-sugar pot?" mocked and taunted Betty Doyle, with bitter laughter. A dozen young voices were quick to take up the cry, and together his once faithful adherents danced off down the
STUCK OUT A SNAKE-LIKE
TONGUE AT HIM
street, flinging back at him that Parthian taunt. He leaned disconsolately against the bake-shop door, and knew that the day of his tyranny was over, that even his mock rule, his pretendership, had come to an ignominious close. Then he made his escape to the haymow, where he worked feverishly and soothingly on his flying-machine. After all, it was just as well; this was not the kingdom, this little land of braids and petticoats, in which a Cæsar should feel at home. It was all over, and for all time, between him and Annie Eliza.
His awakening may have been a rude and
