It seems that there is an ancient prophecy of this copper-coloured tribe that a great queen should some day arise out of the sea with a white crown on her head, and--and--well, you see! There's the crown!' It pointed its claw at cook's cap; and a very dirty cap it was, because it was the end of the week.
'That's the white crown,' it said; 'at least, it's nearly white--very white indeed compared to the colour THEY are--and anyway, it's quite white enough.' Cyril addressed the cook.

'Look here!' said he, 'these brown people want you to be their queen.

They're only savages, and they don't know any better.

Now would you really like to stay?
or, if you'll promise not to be so jolly aggravating at home, and not to tell any one a word about to-day, we'll take you back to Camden Town.' 'No, you don't,' said the cook, in firm, undoubting tones.

'I've always wanted to be the Queen, God bless her! and I always thought what a good one I should make; and now I'm going to.