He now picked all the magnificent jewels from this kingly crown and
from the round ball on the top of his scepter, and sold them and
spent the money. Riotous living, of course. But at last he was at
the end of his resources. He couldn't sell the crown itself, because
no one but the king had the right to wear it. Neither could he sell
the royal palace, because only the king had the right to live there.

So, finally, he found himself reduced to a bare palace, containing
only a big mahogany bedstead that he slept in, a small stool on
which he sat to pull off his shoes and the moth-eaten ermine robe.

In this straight he was reduced to the necessity of borrowing an
occasional dime from his chief counselor, with which to buy a ham
sandwich. And the chief counselor hadn't many dimes. One who
counseled his king so foolishly was likely to ruin his own prospects
as well.

So the king, having nothing more to live for, died suddenly and left
a ten-year-old son to inherit the dismantled kingdom, the moth-eaten
robe and the jewel-stripped crown.

No one envied the child, who had scarcely been thought of until he
became king himself. Then he was recognized as a personage of some
importance, and the politicians and hangers-on, headed by the chief
counselor of the kingdom, held a meeting to determine what could be
done for him.

These folk had helped the old king to live riotously while his money
lasted, and now they were poor and too proud to work. So they tried
to think of a plan that would bring more money into the little