He had passed the pine groves of Boscobel and was approaching the quay of Blawick, when a black police car turned out of a transverse road and pulled up next to him: “The joke has gone too far,” said the driver. “One hundred clowns are packed in Onhava jail, and the ex-King should be among them. Our local prison is much too small for more kings. The next masquerader will be shot at sight. What’s your real name, Charlie?” “I’m British. I’m a tourist,” said the King. “Well, anyway, take off that red fufa. And the cap. Give them here.” He tossed the things in the back of the car and drove off.
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