I had been drinking heavily too, but I resolved to succeed.

"I'm King of Trooly-rooly--" I murmured; but I could not master it--I staggered and followed the King under the table.
"Is there no one here," roared Spitz, "who can shave thish dynasty, and shay 'Tooral--'?
No! -- -- it! I mean 'Trularlooral--'" but he, too, lurched hopelessly forward.
"No one can say 'Tooral-looral--'" muttered Fritz; and, grasping Spitz in despair, they both rolled under the table.
How long we lay there, Heaven knows! I was awakened by Spitz playing the garden hose on me.

He was booted and spurred, with Fritz by his side.

The King was lying on a bench, saying feebly: "Blesh you, my chillen." "By politely acceding to Black Michael's request to 'try our one-and-six sherry,' he has been brought to this condition," said Spitz bitterly.

"It's a trick to keep him from being crowned.