Chapter III.—The Rover.
Thrilling as the scenes depicted in the
preceding chapter indubitably were, those
of this are decidedly THRILLINGER. Again
are we in the mighty presence of the King,
and again is he surrounded by splendor
and gorgeously-mailed courtiers. A seafaring
man stands before him. It is Roberto
the Rover, disguised as a common
sailor.
“So,” said the King, “thou wouldst have
audience with me!”
“Aye, aye, yer 'onor,” said the sailor,
“just tip us yer grapplin irons and pipe all
hands on deck. Reef home yer jibpoop
and splice yer main topsuls. Man the jib-boom
and let fly yer top-gallunts. I've seen
some salt water in my days, yer landlubber,
but shiver my timbers if I hadn't rather
coast among seagulls than landsharks. My
name is Sweet William. You're old Dick
the Three! Ahoy! Awast! Dam my
eyes!” and Sweet William pawed the marble
floor and swung his tarpaulin after the
manner of sailors on the stage, and consequently,
not a bit like those on shipboard.
“Mariner,” said the King, gravely, “thy
language is exceeding lucid, and leads me
to infer that things is workin' bad.”
“Aye, aye, my hearty!” yelled Sweet
William, in dulcet strains, reminding the
King of the “voluptuous smell of physic,”
spoken of by the late Mr. Byron.
“What wouldst thou, seafaring man?”
asked the King.
“This!” cried the Rover, suddenly taking
off his maritime clothing and putting
on an expensive suit of silk, bespangled
with diamonds. “This! I am Roberto the
Rover!”
The King was thunder-struck. Cowering
back in his chair of state, he said in a
tone of mingled fear and amazement,
“Well, may I be gaul-darned!”
“Ber-lud! ber-lud! ber-lud!” shrieked
the Rover, as he drew a horse-pistol and
fired it at the King, who fell fatally killed,
his last words being, “We are governed
too much—this is the last of earth!!!”
At this exciting juncture Messrs. O'Mulligan
and Schnappsgoot (who had previously
entered into a copartnership with the Rover
for the purpose of doing a general killing
business) burst into the room and cut off
the heads and let out the inwards of all the
noblemen they encountered. They then
killed themselves and died like heroes,
wrapped up in the Star Spangled Banner,
to slow music.
The Rover fled. He was captured near
Marseilles and thrust into prison, where he
lay for sixteen weary years, all attempts to
escape being futile. One night a lucky
thought struck him. He raised the window
and got out. But he was unhappy. Remorse
and dyspepsia preyed upon his vitals.
He tried Bœrhave's Holland Bitters and
the Retired Physician's Sands of Life, and
got well. He then married the lovely
Countess D'Smith, and lived to a green
old age, being the triumph of virtue and
downfall of vice.
