Tumbu, for
instance, despite his display of affection, would leave his post to run
after every wild thing he saw; and though he always came back to it, he
was so helplessly breathless, with half a yard of red tongue hanging
out, that he would have been little use had an enemy turned up and his
protection been needed.
Cats were far wiser. They sat still and watched; so they were always
ready.
And one evening Down watched to some purpose. Baby Akbar was asleep on
some quilts and Down, as usual, lay keeping his feet warm, her eyes
closed, purring away like a steaming kettle.
You would have sworn she was half asleep, but in a second there was one
spring, something reared itself at her to strike, but her paws were too
quick. One, two, three, came the blows swiftly like boxes on the ears,
and there was a snake squirming and helpless in the dust. Old Faithful's
armoured feet were on its head in a second and the danger was over.
"Truly a cat is a terrible thing," said Head-nurse in a twitter. "There
is no fear in them. The reptile had not a chance."
But Down was back on her young master's feet, her eyes closed, purring
away as if nothing had happened.
Tumbu was in favour, however, next evening, but for a different cause.
He appeared with a great prickly porcupine held gingerly in his mouth
and laid it before Baby Akbar.
"Ohi! Porcupine for supper!" cried Meroo, the cook boy, who knew what a
delicacy it was; but Head-nurse shrieked, "Take it away quick--the
Heir-to-Empire will prick himself with the quills and they are
poisonous.
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