"It takes nine tailors to make a man,
The song grows stale and staler;
For how many men—aye, how many men—
Will it take to make a tailor?"
chortled the mischievous street boys at every opportunity.
At the end of two years times were dismal indeed. The royal Ladies got out their needles in earnest and, with puckered brows and pricked fingers, settled down to serious tailoring. What odd looking costumes the poor Ladies achieved and what sour looking nobles were in them! Small wonder for often they ripped up if one sat down too suddenly.
And Jerry, shameless fellow, sent the Princess a gold thimble—a thimble mind you!—which she would have done well to return, things considered. But no—she must needs throw it out of the window and spend the rest of the day searching for it, and when 'twas found set it gravely upon her thumb and do remarkable things with a needle and thread upon her royal parent's court robe. She said she was sewing. And the thimble was followed by the tiniest gold shears imaginable and a little gold work-box fitted out with tiny spools with every color silk one could think of, all of which this perverse young Princess set upon her dressing table. Just why—I cannot imagine—can you?
Not only were the poor Courtiers shabby—they were lost—for, thanks to Jerry, the common-folk dressed so richly and royally that strangers invariably did business with the wrong parties, and ended by declaring the whole Kingdom quite, quite mad. Which was quite, quite true. My Lord of Toppertush stole about wrapped in a faded blue cloak, vowing to kill that Jerry Jan, but never in Jerry's hearing. The blacksmith strode blithely through the town clad in a royal green hunting suit, and not a few eyes followed him, mark you. For the royal maidens began to cast kindly glances upon the richly clad burghers' sons, quite ignoring the shabby Dukes and Lords. Was there ever such a topsy-turvy Kingdom as Nevermindwhere, I wonder!
