David to George V

Seagulls poised and wheeling in the hot blue sky above the Indian Ocean espied, last week, a long, low, incredibly slender ship, darting with splendid speed toward Aden, the Red Sea, Suez. A literate seagull might have spelled out upon the vessel's spume flecked prow the name H. M. S. Enterprise. Aboard and often on the bridge was a young man who is called by his Royal family simply "David." As he paced the bridge, engines of 80,000 horsepower thrust the frail 7,600-ton cruiser across the placid Indian Ocean at automobile speed: 40 m.p.h. Only a seaplane could have sped faster, yet the distance of 6,000 miles seemed illimitable, mocking. Perhaps the young man remembered Kipling's words:

The Injun Ocean sets an' smiles

So sof, so bright, so bloomin' blue!

There aren't a wave for miles an' miles,

Excep' the jiggle from the screw.

Last week the "jiggle" was a boiling, foaming wake wave, and from the Enterprise's short, rakishly tilted funnels spewed enough smoke and steam at roaring forced draft to perceptibly darken the "blue." Behind lay British East Africa and the small, busy port of Dar-Es-Saalam, where Edward of Wales had taken ship. Ahead, beyond the Red Sea, beyond the Mediterranean, beyond Europe and the Channel lay the beloved Sovereign of an Empire. Radio flashes told that pleurisy had been followed by pneumonia, complicated by Bright's disease.

At so grave an hour the young bachelor who may some day choose to call himself "King David"* might properly have pondered what his future is to be. Not much longer will the Empire rest content that he is without wife or heir. One may, with propriety, assume that last week the thoughts of David of Windsor turned repeatedly upon Lady Anne Maud Wellesley, 18, dark eyed and blooming daughter of the Marquis Douro, direct descendant of the great Duke of Wellington.

Lady Anne is convalescing from pneumonia. Reports of her illness and recovery are known to have been cabled in code to Edward of Wales throughout the course of his Afric Good Will Tour (TIME, Sept. 17 et seq.). Naturally the Marquis Douro continued, last week, his refusal either to confirm or to deny. But the fact of H. R. H.'s solicitude for Lady Anne was not disputed.

Code radio flashes from London to the plunging, speeding Enterprise told David of Windsor more than any correspondent knew about George V's condition. In England censorship of the official medical bulletins by Home Secretary Sir William Joynson-Hicks grew so drastic that prominent folk even tried to pry the truth out of Sir William's son Lancelot, previously a pallid nonentity. One day after chatting with his tall, correct, frock-coated father, Lancelot Joynson-Hicks said positively: "There is no doubt that the King is on the mend."

Soon afterward an official bulletin meaninglessly declared: "It must be noted that the time of possible exacerbation of the infection has not yet passed, and in any case progress must be slow." The vigilant and imperialist Daily Mail, which is always scenting "lurking Communists," actually printed, last week, a story about "lurking microbes" in the Royal lungs. Among Englishmen who regularly listened to radio bulletins concerning the King-Emperor's health was George V himself. During the week X-ray pictures of the King's lungs were taken, developed in a motortruck studio just outside Buckingham Palace, printed and delivered to His Majesty's physicians in 90 minutes.

From all 'round the Empire and beyond there poured into London, last week, stories of George V's solid worth, kindness, judgment, sympathy. Of these testimonials none seemed to come from a heart more full than that of one Harry Shepherd, now a Delavan, Wis., farmer, once head gamekeeper to George V.

Said Farmer Shepherd: "I went to see the King at Sandr'n'm when I was over last year and I just walked in on him in his garden. He saw me when I was a block away and came straight over.

" 'Well, Harry, I'm glad to see you again,' and he took my hand and arm with his two hands. That makes a man feel good, you know.

"He never turned out an employe even for being drunk all the time I was head gamekeeper. If they get drunk so much they can't do their work he pensions them."

Though literally thousands of distinguished persons have sent flowers, notes of sympathy or telegrams to Buckingham Palace, the only one known to have received an unquestionably personal reply from

George V last week was "Old Kate." For many a year this cheerful crippled soul has sold race track cards to the elite of England at Ascot and other famed races. Last fortnight "Old Kate" hobbled to Buckingham Palace to leave "j'st some posies f'r Tm, bless 'Im!" A smart news photographer clicked his shutter and caught Old Kate with posies. Last week the photograph was published in one of the reviews and caught the Royal eye. Though he had probably never received the poor posies George V, King and Emperor, dictated a personal note of thanks to Old Kate. It had to be handed to her on the street, since intensive research by minions failed to reveal that she has an address.

Correspondents reported with sympathy, last week, that Queen-Empress Mary had begun to show the strain of watching over His Majesty. She and Princess Mary rode out for a short drive, each day, to reassure the populace, and it was noticed that only by a perceptible effort did the Queen maintain the serene set smile which she alone seems to be able to make warm, personal, genuine. Fears that the King-Emperor was sinking redoubled when the Royal physicians* bulletined their "anxiety concerning the strength of the heart." Troubled subjects recalled that His Majesty never recovered full, robust health after his fall from a horse in 1915. Frightened, the animal reared and planted a forefoot on His Majesty's chest, partially crushing, vital organs.

* His baptismal names, anyone of which he may choose are: Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David. * At a. critical moment famed Sir E. Farquhar Buzzard was called to the Royal bedside.