Still, as you say, they are at an impressionable age. I
will do my best."
On Easter Saturday Harvey Bope unpacked a large, promising-looking red
cardboard box under the expectant eyes of his nephews. "Your uncle has
brought you the newest thing in toys," Eleanor had said impressively, and
youthful anticipation had been anxiously divided between Albanian
soldiery and a Somali camel-corps. Eric was hotly in favour of the
latter contingency. "There would be Arabs on horseback," he whispered;
"the Albanians have got jolly uniforms, and they fight all day long, and
all night, too, when there's a moon, but the country's rocky, so they've
got no cavalry."
A quantity of crinkly paper shavings was the first thing that met the
view when the lid was removed; the most exiting toys always began like
that. Harvey pushed back the top layer and drew forth a square, rather
featureless building.
"It's a fort!" exclaimed Bertie.
"It isn't, it's the palace of the Mpret of Albania," said Eric, immensely
proud of his knowledge of the exotic title; "it's got no windows, you
see, so that passers-by can't fire in at the Royal Family."
"It's a municipal dust-bin," said Harvey hurriedly; "you see all the
refuse and litter of a town is collected there, instead of lying about
and injuring the health of the citizens.
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