But the little Prince himself was delighted.  He plumped down on the hot sand beside the dog and hugged it, calling it “Dear Tumbu,” and when the white cat jealously rubbed her back against his little fat person he hugged her too and called her “Darling Down.”

“Hark to the Lord-of-the-Universe giving his creatures names!” said Foster-mother piously.  So after that everybody called the golliwog dog Tumbu, and the fluffy cat Down.

This was the beginning of a whole week on camel back; a very pleasant week too, though the minds of the elders were rather on the stretch concerning the fate of King Humayon and Queen Humeeda.

Still the sky was as blue as blue could be, the sun shone bright and the air was crisp with coming winter.  Head-nurse spent most of her days dozing and mumbling long strings of titles in one pannier, while Down slept and purred on her lap.  In the other pannier were Foster-mother and Baby Akbar.  The little fellow did not sleep much, but spent most of his time craning over the pannier side to see everything there was to be seen.  But what amused him most was to watch Tumbu, who would look up and bark and gambol for hours to attract his little master’s attention.  Whereat Down would become impatient and come over the camel’s hump from the other pannier, rub her back against the little Prince and watch, too, with a sort of dignified contempt.  It was the way of dogs to be loud and effusive, and gushing; but it didn’t mean much.  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.  Take it away at once, I say.”