He was wrapped nearly up to his waist in a smooth, dripping garment of greenish mud; and patches of it adorned the rest of him.

It would have been difficult to imagine anything more unlike a Hohenzollern in a white sailor suit; and his face was hardly attractive enough to justify you in comparing him to the dripping, weed-be-draped Lorelei of his native land.
"Well! You _are_ an aggravating little boy! Whatever am I to do with you ?" cried Pollyooly in a tone of despair.
The prince uttered an apologetic grunt.
"The only thing to do is to get you home as quick as I can," she said heavily.
She carried the Lump back across the dyke, then the basket of mushrooms.
Then she led the prince across it.

They took their slow way back to the village, the prince leaving behind him a trail which would have gladdened the heart of the last, or any other, of the Cherokees.
The Baron von Habelschwert, sleeping peacefully beside a sweet work of genius, called "Dove Wifie," which had fallen from his hand, missed the departure of his young charge in the wake of Pollyooly.

He slept for an hour; and when he did awake, her friends had moved a long way down the beach.

He struggled to his feet, and set out in search of the prince, assured that he was somewhere on the sands playing with his active, but socially impossible, protector.