began drawing lines with his stick in the dust of the path in
demonstration.

The opportunity was irresistible, and the hook from above deftly
caught the band of the feathered hat of the taller man, slowly and
steadily drawing it up, entirely unperceived by the owner, on whose
wig it had rested, and who was bending over the dust-traced diagram
in absorbed attention. Peregrine deferred his hobgoblin laughter,
for success emboldened him farther. Detaching the hat from his
hook, and depositing it safely in a fork of the tree, he next
cautiously let down his line, and contrived to get a strong hold of
one of the black locks on the top of the wig, just as the wearer was
observing, "Oliver's Battery, eh? A cupola with a light to be seen
out at sea? Our sailors will make another St. Christopher of you!
Ha! what's this'"

For feeling as if a branch were touching the structure on his head,
he had stepped forward, thus favouring Peregrine's manoeuvres so
that the wig dangled in the air, suddenly disclosing the bare skull
of a very dark man, with such marked features that it needed not the
gentlemen's outcry to show the boy who was the victim of his
mischief.

"What imp is there?" cried the King, spying up into the tree, while
his attendant drew his sword, "How now?" as Peregrine half climbed,
half tumbled down, bringing hat and wig with him, and, whether by
design or accident, fell at his feet. "Will nothing content you but
royal game?" he continued laughing, as Sir Christopher Wren helped
him to resume his wig. "Why, what a shrimp it is! a mere goblin
sprite! What's thy name, master wag?"