So saying, the King of all Clubs advanced with the Scythe-holder, and, taking advantage of a moment when King FOOZLER, having made a long shot, was in good humour, rapidly effected the necessary presentation.

“I know this game well,” said Mr. Punch.  “It is said to be much played in my own country now.  Permit me to have the honour of playing one hole against your Majesty.”

The King smiled a gracious assent.  His ball had been already placed for him on a little heap of sand about an inch high.  He advanced towards it, anxiously measured his distance, waved his club to and fro over his ball as if in blessing, and then, swinging it through the air, struck—­nothing.  The ball remained unmoved.

“He’s missit the globe,” muttered one of the attendants; “I’ve aye tellt him to keep his eye furrmer on the ball.”

Four times His Majesty, whose good humour was now entirely gone, repeated the operation with similar results.  At last he hurled his club to the ground, breaking it into splinters, and addressed his immovable ball in strong terms.

“Allow me, Your Majesty,” said Mr. Punch, as he stepped airily forward and selected the king’s best driver from the heap of clubs carried by the chief caddie, “I think I know how this ought to be done,” and without a moment’s hesitation he delivered his stroke.  The ball flew true and far until it was merely a speck in the air, and finally dropped down about a quarter of a mile away.  “You will find it in the hole,” said the Golfer of Golfers, carelessly turning to the discomfited King; “Oh, my Royal and Ancient One,” he continued, “there are certain things we do better in another country, and Golf is one of them.”

But at this moment a great commotion arose.  A messenger on a foaming steed dashed up, and handed a despatch to the king, who at once read it.

“Dear me!” said His Majesty, “this is most annoying.  The Emperor of BARATARIA is to arrive in half an hour.  He’s a bit of a young prig, and bores me dreadfully—­but we must meet him.”  With that he retired at once to the nearest palace, to change his uniform.  In about ten minutes he came forth a changed man.  On his head glittered an immense helmet, with a waving plume; a tunic of gold lace was buttoned tightly round his chest.  Row upon row of stars and medals encircled him like so many belts; his legs were hidden in an enormous pair of jack-boots, to which were fixed a pair of huge Mexican spurs.  An immense sword dangled at his side.

“This,” said the King, as he motioned Mr. Punch and Father TIME into his state carriage, and vaulted in after them with as much agility as his sword and boots would permit, “is the uniform of the Baratarian Die-hards, of which regiment I am honorary Colonel.”

Thus they drove to the balloon station, at which the Imperial guest was expected.  After a few minutes, a sound of cheering was heard.

“He’s coming,” observed the King.  “Have I got my kissing face on?”