After him came Meroo, the misshapen cook-boy. He was an odd fellow, all
long limbs and broad smiles, who, when his time arrived, shambled
forward, cast himself in lowliest reverence full length on the ground
and blubbered out his delight--now that the princely baby could really
eat--at being able to supply all sorts of toothsome stews full of onions
and green ginger, to say nothing of watermelons and sugar cane. These
things, strange to say, being to little Indian children very much what
chocolate creams and toffee are to English ones.
So far all had gone well, and now there only remained one more salute to
be made. But little Adam, who was Head-nurse's own son, and who had
hitherto been Baby Akbar's playmate, refused absolutely to do as he was
bid. He was a short, sturdy boy of five, and nothing would induce him to
go down on his knees and touch the ground with his forehead. In vain
Meroo, the cook-boy, promised him sweets if he would only obey orders;
in vain Old Faithful spoke of a ride on his old war-horse, and Roy, who
was a most wonderful story-teller, promised him the best of all,
Bopuluchi. In vain his mother, losing patience at such a terrible piece
of indecorum, rushed at him and cuffed him soundly. He only howled and
kicked.
And then suddenly Baby Akbar, who had been listening with a solemn face,
brought his little bare foot down on the mule trunk with such a stamp
that the golden anklets jingled and jangled, and his little forefinger
went up over his head in the real Eastern attitude of royal command.
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