Free The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck Page B

them?”
    â€œMartinis.”
    â€œItalian?”
    â€œIt isn’t,” said Uncle Charlie. “Pippin, I don’t want you to leave me, but I think it only fair to warn you that Clotilde is bringing her new friend. I’ve opened the little rear door for my own convenience. If you would care to leave without being seen—”
    â€œWhat friend is this?”
    â€œAn American friend. I thought he might be interested in some sketches.”
    â€œUncle Charlie!”
    â€œA man must live, my nephew. No royal revenues have been assigned to me. Are there any royal revenues, by the way?”
    â€œNot that I know of,” said the king. “There’s the new American loan, but the Privy Council won’t release any of it. You know the Privy Council is not unlike the recent republican government.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t it be?” said Uncle Charlie. “It’s the same people. As I said, the little rear door opens into the alley.”
    â€œAre you going to use your position to cheat this American? Uncle Charlie, is that the noble thing to do?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, it is,” said Charles Martel. “We invented it. I make no representations. If he likes a picture, he buys it. I simply say Boucher might have painted it. So he might. Anything is possible.”
    â€œBut you are the king’s uncle! To cheat a commoner, and an American commoner, at that, is—is like shooting sitting birds. The British would take a dim view of it.”
    â€œThe British have developed their own methods of combining aristocracy with profit. They have more recent experience than we. But we will learn—and meanwhile, what is wrong with practicing on a rich American?”
    â€œHe is rich?”
    â€œHe is what the Americans call ‘loaded.’ His father is the Egg King of a province called Petaluma.”
    â€œWell, at least you’re not stealing from the—the lower orders.”
    â€œIndeed I am not, my child. In America one only becomes a member of the lower orders when one is insolvent.”
    â€œUncle Charlie, if you’re making another one of those what-do-you-call-thems, I think I will stay and meet this Egg Prince. Is Clotilde serious in this—friendship?”
    â€œI should hope so,” said Uncle Charlie. “His father, H. W. Johnson, the king, has two hundred and thirty million chickens.”
    â€œGracious!” said Pippin. “Well, thank Heaven Clotilde is not falling into the error of a certain English princess, giving her heart to a commoner. Thank you, Uncle Charlie. You know, you’re getting the knack. This is far superior to the first one.”
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    Tod Johnson was no more born to the purple than was the original Charles Martel. In 1932 the Johnson Grocery in Petaluma, California, nudged on by what was called “The Great Depression,” slipped quietly out of existence. In 1933 H. W. Johnson, Tod’s father, was enrolled on federal relief and assigned to roadwork.
    H. W. Johnson never blamed President Hoover for the loss of his grocery store, but he could never forgive President Roosevelt for having fed him.
    When, lacking refrigeration, the relief organization distributed live chickens, Mr. Johnson kept them a while before he ate them. He was fascinated by birds so unintelligent, which nevertheless could find subsistence in the weed patch behind his house.
    During his two years on the road gang, Hank Johnson thought about chickens. When his grandmother died, leaving him three thousand dollars, he promptly bought ten thousand baby chicks. Most of this first venture died of a disease which darkened their combs and withered their feathers, but Johnson was not one to cry failure. It was hard enough to engage his interest in the first place, but once engaged, it was even more difficult to budge it. He wrote to the Department of Agriculture for its chicken booklet and from it he learned