yet Tooni would not sit down. What might not the Maharajah do if
he came and found them disrespectfully seated in his audience hall!
Patiently she stood, first on one foot and then on the other, with
her lips all puckered up and her eyes on the floor, thinking of
things that would be polite enough to say to a Maharajah. They
were so troublesome to think of, that she could not attend to what
Sonny Sahib said at all, even when he asked her for the sixth time
how you made a peacock with blue glass eyes, like the one on each
arm of His Highness's chair. Sonny Sahib grew quite tired of
watching the mud-turtle that was paddling about in a pool of the
shallow river among the yellow sands down below, and of counting
the camels that were wading across it, carrying their packs and
their masters; and yet the Maharajah did not come.

'Tooni,' he said presently, 'without doubt I must sit down,' and
down he sat plumply, with his back against the wall, and his two
small legs, in their very best striped cotton trousers, stretched
out in front of him.

As a matter of fact the Maharajah was asleep, and had forgotten all
about Sonny Sahib in the hall of audience. It was Moti[1] who
reminded him, whispering in his ear until he awoke. Moti was the
little Maharajah, and that was his pet name. Moti was privileged
to remind his father of things.


[1] A pearl.


So Moti and the Maharajah went down to the audience hall together,