Don’t ask me to explain what riotous living is.  I only know, from hearsay, that it is an excellent way to get rid of money.  And so this spendthrift king found it.

He now picked all the magnificent jewels from this kingly crown and from the round ball on the top of his scepter, and sold them and spent the money.  Riotous living, of course.  But at last he was at the end of his resources.  He couldn’t sell the crown itself, because no one but the king had the right to wear it.  Neither could he sell the royal palace, because only the king had the right to live there.

So, finally, he found himself reduced to a bare palace, containing only a big mahogany bedstead that he slept in, a small stool on which he sat to pull off his shoes and the moth-eaten ermine robe.

In this straight he was reduced to the necessity of borrowing an occasional dime from his chief counselor, with which to buy a ham sandwich.  And the chief counselor hadn’t many dimes.  One who counseled his king so foolishly was likely to ruin his own prospects as well.

So the king, having nothing more to live for, died suddenly and left a ten-year-old son to inherit the dismantled kingdom, the moth-eaten robe and the jewel-stripped crown.

No one envied the child, who had scarcely been thought of until he became king himself.  Then he was recognized as a personage of some importance, and the politicians and hangers-on, headed by the chief counselor of the kingdom, held a meeting to determine what could be done for him.

These folk had helped the old king to live riotously while his money lasted, and now they were poor and too proud to work.  So they tried to think of a plan that would bring more money into the little king’s treasury, where it would be handy for them to help themselves.

After the meeting was over the chief counselor came to the young king, who was playing peg-top in the courtyard, and said: 

“Your majesty, we have thought of a way to restore your kingdom to its former power and magnificence.”

“All right,” replied his majesty, carelessly.  “How will you do it?”

“By marrying you to a lady of great wealth,” replied the counselor.

“Marrying me!” cried the king.  “Why, I am only ten years old!”

“I know; it is to be regretted.  But your majesty will grow older, and the affairs of the kingdom demand that you marry a wife.”

“Can’t I marry a mother, instead?” asked the poor little king, who had lost his mother when a baby.

“Certainly not,” declared the counselor.  “To marry a mother would be illegal; to marry a wife is right and proper.”

“Can’t you marry her yourself?” inquired his majesty, aiming his peg-top at the chief counselor’s toe, and laughing to see how he jumped to escape it.

“Let me explain,” said the other.  “You haven’t a penny in the world, but you have a kingdom.  There are many rich women who would be glad to give their wealth in exchange for a queen’s coronet—­even if the king is but a child.  So we have decided to advertise that the one who bids the highest shall become the queen of Quok.”