As I approached the doorway, my eye was caught by a massive decoration glittering immediately above it.  It was a design of large gilt wooden letters which I couldn’t make out at first, as it had been turned upside down.  I didn’t realise its meaning till afterward, but I may as well tell the reader now.

Shortly before, King Coffee, feeling in need of some insignia to blazon forth his rank, had appealed to a friend of his, a kindly American visitor, who practically kept the old fellow alive with his bounty.  This kind friend was a wag too, and couldn’t resist the idea that had come to him.  The old man wanted something that glittered.  So the American had bethought him of those big lettered signs which on the face of saloons brighten the American landscape—­signs announcing somebody or other’s “extra.”  This it was that now glittered in front of me as—­the royal arms!

That it was upside down merely added to its mysterious impressiveness for the passer-by, and in no way afflicted the old king since, in spite of that imposing book at the window, he was quite unable to read.  That book, a huge, much-gilded family Bible, was merely another portion of the insignia—­presented by the same kind friend; as also was the magnificent frock coat, three sizes too big for the shrunken old figure, in which I found him—­installed, shall I say?—­as I presently stood before him in response to a dignified inclination of his head, welcoming me, at the window.

Remembering that he was not merely royal, but pious also, I made my salutation at once courtier-like and sanctimonious.

“Good day to Your Majesty,” I said; “God’s good, God looks after his servants.”

“De Lord is merciful,” he answered gravely; “God takes care of his children.  Be seated, sar, and please excuse my not rising, my rheumatism is a sore affliction to me.  But de Lord is good, de Lord giveth and de Lord He taketh away—­and de holy text includes rheumatism too—­as I have told my poor wandering flock many a Sabbath evening.”

And he smiled in a sly self-satisfied way at his pious pun.  “The old fellow is far from being crazy,” I said to myself.

I was not long in getting to the subject of my visit.  The old man listened to me with great composure, but with a marked accession of mysterious importance in his manner.  So mediaeval astrologers drew down their brows with a solemn assumption of supernatural wisdom when consulted by some noble client—­noble, but pitiably mortal in the presence of their hidden knowledge.  He had put his book down as I talked.  I noticed that he had been holding it—­like his royal arms—­upside down.