He had set himself a task and he meant to do it.
"Go way!" he said with determination.

"Tumbu down.

Get up again." So, calmly reaching round for the turban which lay beside him, which he evidently thought had tumbled down too, he clapped it on his head with both hands, rose to his feet and recommenced his forward lurch; a yard or two of the fringed turban, which had become unrolled, trailing behind him like a royal robe.
It was a quainter little figure than before, but nobody laughed now.
They looked at each other, then at the child staggering along under the Prince's plumed turban, then at Prince Askurry himself standing bareheaded before his nephew.
It was an ill omen.

And yet as Head-nurse said proudly when they got back to the rooms that had been given them in a frowning bastion of the palace, Baby Akbar had once more scored off his uncle.
Indeed, she was so cock-a-hoop about it that she stickled for this, and she stickled for that until the attendants, who were at first inclined to be civil, began to look askance, and Foster-father had to bid her hold her tongue.
"Wise folk leave steel traps alone," he said; "fiddling with them lets off the spring.

Then--pouf!" He shook his head significantly.
"Steel traps ?" echoed Head-nurse sniffily, "who is talking of steel traps ?" "I am, woman!" replied Foster-father sternly.