I was standing there when the plate of blueberry pastries was set on the table.
“Oh,” Mr. Ratherquite said as his Ladies giggled, “they look simply awesome.”
“But you mustn’t touch them,” said the maid who had sat them there. “These are for the party. You can have them when the party starts in two hours.”
“Madam,” Prince Beef said with a wave of his hand, “worry not. These tarts shall not be touched.”
The maid seemed satisfied, and so she departed.
You see, this professor (and Mr. Ratherquite and his Ladies) had arrived early. Prince Beef had asked us to.
“I bet you’re wondering,” the prince began, “why I told you to arrive early.”
From the look on the prince’s face, he rather seemed to hope it was so.
“Of course,” Mr. Ratherquite answered. “I was wondering before I arrived.”
The Ladies giggled, and Prince Beef shot them an angry look.
“Well, here is the reason,” Prince Beef said as he picked up a blueberry pastry, preparing to sink his teeth into his stolen prey.
But this professor stopped him. “If I may…”
The prince paused, his hand half way to his mouth.
“What do you want, you rat?” the prince said, obviously cranky.
“Well…” I looked towards Mr. Ratherquite.
He nodded. “Yes, you can’t eat that, Mr. Prince. You said you wouldn’t. Your word is binding.”
“Yes, yes,” this professor said. “Quite right—and that makes it quite wrong to do it.”
The prince laughed, and took a quick bite. “I care not what I promise, for a promise only lasts the second it was sealed. And this promise never was sealed. Plus, it’s expired.”
And that was that. Mr. Ratherquite was angry. He stepped forward, and with one quick motion, knocked the blueberry pastry from Prince Beef’s hand.
It hit the floor with a flop.
Prince Beef was shocked—and white.
Then he yelled. And yelled. And yelled.
He didn’t say “Dishonor” but he did say, “R-r-rude!”
“No, sir,” Mr. Ratherquite retorted, “you are rude, crude, and rude! You have broken a promise!”
It didn’t end well.
Mr. Ratherquite was thrown—along with his Ladies—into prison.
And this professor was thrown out of the palace.
Dadblamery, isn’t it?