The new boy never got to know the British school well. And after 13 days, when he was gone, the school realized that it never knew the new boy either. Sandroyd School, Surrey, so small that it is omitted from most British school directories, settled back to its usual existence last week, after the exciting thought that the pale little boy of 11, the one with the bangs and the bony knees, had suddenly become a King, and for a moment the most spotlighted person in the world. Before breakfast Peter II of Jugoslavia was hauled from his dormitory bed and brought down to the headmaster's office. His old tutor, a man named Parrott, was there too. The boy learned that his father had had a serious automobile accident, that he must go up to London at once. He packed the one brown suitcase that is supposed to be sufficient for Sandroyd boys, put on his belted overcoat and his school cap, got into the car. At the Ritz "Granny," Dowager Queen Marie of Rumania, was waiting for him. Looking even more dramatic than usual, she wept a great deal, but would say nothing beyond the fact that there had been ''an accident, my God, a terrible accident." There was a whispered conference among the grownups, and they took away Peter's school cap. Faithful Mr. Parrott came back in a little while with a brown felt hat. It was much too big for Peter and settled down over his ears. On the Channel steamer he kept asking questions and was finally persuaded to play deck tennis with Tutor Parrott. Mr. Parrott missed the ring a good many times, and seemed distracted. At Paris the train stopped some distance from the station. Heavily guarded by police and still spouting questions, little Peter of Jugoslavia was rushed to the Paris residence of Jugoslavia's Marshal of the Royal Household, while the rest of his party went to the Ritz.* Next morning Dowager Queen Marie of Jugoslavia, all in black and looking very pale and sick, arrived to meet her son. As Peter ran forward to kiss her she did something very funny. She dropped on one knee and curtsied.
"Peter," said she. "your father is dead. His enemies killed him in Marseilles. Now you are the King of Jugoslavia. Never forget that your father died like a king. His duty is now your duty. His work is your work. To do those things for which he gave his life must be your constant aim."
Puzzled and tearful little King Peter kept crying: "But Mama, why did they do it? Why did they do it?"
That night the royal party set off for Belgrade and home. At Innsbruck one reporter was allowed to board the special train. He learned from Dowager Queen Marie of Rumania that Dowager Queen Marie of Jugoslavia was a very sick woman. Besides the gallstones from which she has been suffering in recent weeks, she had painfully ulcerated teeth.
Then Belgrade. At the railway station were the members of the Regency, the Mayor of Belgrade with the traditional salver of bread & salt, Deputies, generals, priests, rabbis, ladies-in-waiting. There, too, was a guard of honor, stiffly at attention, with the national colors draped in black. Little King Peter knew what he must do. Loudly his childish treble piped out: "May God help, heroes!" Back came the bass roar of the Guards: ''God keep you!"