"I am delighted to have been able to be of service, Sir."

"Igglud! How do you bead you're Igglud? Talk seds."

Clarence silenced him with a frown.

"I say I am England. I am the Chief Scout, and the Scouts are England.
Prince Otto, you thought this England of ours lay prone and helpless.
You were wrong. The Boy Scouts were watching and waiting. And now their
time has come. Scout-Master Wagstaff, do your duty."

The Scout-Master moved forward. The Prince, bounding to the bed, thrust
his hand under the pillow. Clarence's voice rang out like a trumpet.

"Cover that man!"

The Prince looked up. Two feet away Scout-Master Wagstaff was standing,
catapult in hand, ready to shoot.

"He is never known to miss," said Clarence warningly.

The Prince wavered.

"He has broken more windows than any other boy of his age in South
London."

The Prince sullenly withdrew his hand--empty.

"Well, whad do you wad?" he snarled.

"Resistance is useless," said Clarence. "The moment I have plotted and
planned for has come. Your troops, worn out with fighting, mere shadows
of themselves, have fallen an easy prey. An hour ago your camp was
silently surrounded by patrols of Boy Scouts, armed with catapults and
hockey-sticks. One rush and the battle was over. Your entire army, like
yourself, are prisoners."

"The diggids they are!" said the Prince blankly.

"England, my England!" cried Clarence, his face shining with a holy
patriotism. "England, thou art free! Thou hast risen from the ashes of
the dead self. Let the nations learn from this that it is when
apparently crushed that the Briton is to more than ever be feared."

"Thad's bad grabbar," said the Prince critically.

"It isn't," said Clarence with warmth.

"It _is_, I tell you. Id's a splid idfididive."