[Illustration: Dad leaned against a lamp post and scratched his back 364]
The Emperor was mad at first, but he laughed, and when we got out of the palace dad leaned against a lamp post and scratched his back, and said to me, “Hennery, you never ought to have did it,” and I said, “What could a poor boy do when called upon suddenly to do something to entertain royalty?”
“Well,” says dad, “I don't care for myself, but this thing is apt to bring on international complications,” and I said, “Yes, it will bring Persia into it, cause they will have to use Persian insect powder to get rid of them,” and then we went to our hotel and fought fleas all night, and thought of the sleepless night the royal family were having.
The Bad Boy Writes from Brussels--He and Dad see the Field of Waterloo and call on King Leopold and Dad and the King go in for a Swim--The Bad Boy, a Dog and some Goats do the rest.
Brussels, Belgium.--Dear Old Skate: “What is the matter with our going to Belgium?” said dad to me, as we were escaping from Germany. “Well, what in thunder do we want to go to Belgium for?” said I to dad. “I do not want to go to a country that has no visible means of support, except raising Belgian hares, to sell to cranks in America. I couldn't eat rabbits without thinking I was chewing a piece of house cat, and rabbits is the chief food of the people. I have eaten horse and mule in Paris, and wormy figs in Turkey, and embalmed beef fried in candle grease in Russia, and sausage in Germany, imported from the Leutgart sausage factory in Chicago, where the man run his wife through a sausage machine; and stuff in Egypt, with ground mummy for curry powder, but I draw the line on Belgian hares, and I strike right here, and shall have the International Union of Amalgamated Tourists declare a boycott on Belgium, by gosh,” said I, just like that, bristling up to dad real spunky.
“You are going to Belgium all right,” said dad, as he took hold of my thumb in a Jiu Jitsu fashion, and twisted it backwards until I fairly penuked, and held it, while he said he should never dare go home without visiting King Leopold's kingdom, and had a talk with an eighty-year-old male flirt, who had a thousand chorus girls on his staff, and could give the Sultan of Turkey cards and spades and little casino in the harem game. “You will go along, won't you, bub?” and he gave my thumb another twist, and I said, “You bet your life, but I won't do a thing to you and Leopold before we get out of the Belgian hare belt,” and so here we are, looking for trouble.