Mr. Punch reassured him.  A moment afterwards the state-balloon of BARATARIA soared up to the platform, and a young man, gorgeously attired in the uniform of the Tenth (Jupiter’s Own) Lancers, sprang lightly from it.

  Loud pealed the loyal anthem, and rattled all the drums,
  And, as the guard presented, the cry went up, “He comes!”
  He steps upon the platform, and, while the plaudits ring,
  A King hangs round an Emperor’s neck, an Emperor hugs a King;
  And, with impartial kisses on both cheeks duly pressed,
  The guest does homage to his host, the host salutes his guest.

The Emperor then, having shaken Mr. Punch warmly by the hand, departed with his royal host.  After this, the three potentates, Punch the Only, FOOZLER THE FIFTH, and the Baratarian Emperor, called upon one another at intervals of half an hour.  This process occupied the afternoon.

For the evening a state-ball at the Royal Palace had been announced.  Thither, at the appointed hour, Mr. Punch and his hoary associate were conveyed.  As they approached, the royal band struck up a martial air, the Lord Chamberlain advanced to meet them, and ushered them into the magnificent hall in which the guests were assembling.  From this a wide double staircase led up to a marble gallery.  Hall, gallery, and staircase were filled with a brilliant crowd; the men arrayed in every variety of uniform; the ladies, to a woman, in V-shaped dresses, the openness of which appeared to vary in a direct ratio to the age of their wearers.

[Illustration]

“We will repose awhile,” Mr. Punch remarked to the Father, “and scan the multitude.  This, my dear Tempus, is the pick of Society.  That stout lady, with a face like a haughty turtle, is the Duchess of DOUBLECHIN; that graceful little woman next to her is Lady ANGELINA BATTLEAXE—­she is a dress-maker.”

“A what?” inquired Father TIME.

“A dress-maker,” answered the Master, calmly.

  “In her shop, ancient notions forsaking,
    The proud ANGELINA unbends;
  And her figure’s a tall one for making
    A fit for the figures of friends. 
  Our cynical latter-day Catos
    Are dumb when invited to dine
  With a Marquis who deals in potatoes,
    Or an Earl who takes orders for wine. 
  And, though old-fashioned folk think it funny,
    It’s as common as death, or as debts,
  To find gentlemen making their money
    Out of shops for the making of bets.

The stout puffy old fellow there is the wealthiest man in Jupiter.  He floats mines, asteroid mines mostly, and makes it pay him.  He can command the very best society.  Those ladies clustering round the Prince-Royal come from over the ocean.  Pretty, but twangy.  A fresh consignment arrives every year.  And the Prince-Royal has the pick of them.”

[Illustration]

But before Mr. Punch could finish his explanatory sketch, a tremendous uproar was heard in the court-yard of the Palace.  There was a sound as of a huge mob shouting in unison, shots were heard, and cries of “Liberty for Ever:”  vent the air.  The royal guests were in a state of terrible agitation.  An orderly covered with mud forced his way through the crowd, up the stairs, and stood before the King.