Titus Rules!

by Dick King-Smith

  “Excuse me,” said Titus politely. “I am no longer a puppy. I am an adult corgi.”

  “Adult, are you?” snarled Chum. “Old enough to defend yourself, then?”

  “Defend myself ?” said Titus. “Against whom?”

  “Against me,” Chum replied. “I'm fed up to the back teeth” (and he showed them) “with you and your airs and graces. Think yourself special, don't you? Think you're a cut above the rest of us, eh?”

  “No, I don't.”

  “Sleeping on the Queen's bed, eh?” went on Chum. “How d'you get up on it, then?”

  “The servant lifts me up.”

  “Servant? What servant?”

  “The Queen. Mum says she is our servant.”

  “Oh, she says that, does she?” growled Chum. He took a pace forward, so that their noses were almost touching. “Well, all I can say is your mother's a silly old fool.”

  This was too much for Titus. Up to that point he'd been hoping to avoid a fight with the older dog, and even thinking that it might perhaps be wise to run for it, back to the safety of the great drawing room. But to hear his beloved mother called “a silly old fool”!

  “How dare you say that!” he cried, and he sank his teeth into one of Chum's ears.

  The noise of the fight rang down the long corridors, to be clearly heard by all the other corgis, by the two footmen, by the Comptroller of Her Majesty's Household, by Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh — and finally by Queen Elizabeth herself. All, in turn, hastened to the scene.

  First came Prissy, loudly barking, “Mummy's coming, darling!” And she was followed by the rest of the pack.

  Then John of the black mustache and Patrick of the red hair came running, followed, as quickly as he could manage, by a hurrying Sir Gregory Collimore.

  Then “What the devil's going on?” shouted a loud voice as Prince Philip arrived. By now all the corgis had joined in the scuffle, and both the footmen had been nipped while trying to break it up. And Sir Gregory, a little dizzy from his unaccustomed haste, had unfortunately tripped up Prince Philip, so that both fell to the floor.

  Then suddenly a high-pitched voice cried loudly, “QUIET!” and lo, there was quiet, for not one of the corgis would have dreamt of disobeying such a Royal Command. The Queen stood, hands on hips, surveying the scene.

  Several of her dogs were licking at nipped paws or torn ears, her footmen were trying to bandage with handkerchiefs their sore fingers, and on the floor of the corridor sprawled the prostrate figures of her breathless Comptroller and her furious Consort.

  But she had eyes for only one. “Titus!” she called. “Are you all right?”

  Chapter Nine

  The damage to Titus, the Queen found, was very little. Prissy and the other corgis had mostly pitched into poor Chum, who was looking rather the worse for wear. As well as having had an ear quite badly bitten by Titus (from then on it always drooped a bit), he had had a number of nips to nose and paws, and the Queen spent some time attending to him that evening. She also commanded the two footmen to see a doctor, and she made sure that her elderly Comptroller was none the worse for his fall.

  Not till all this was done did she go check up on her husband. “You didn't hurt yourself, did you, Philip?” she asked when they met in her sitting room.

  “Luckily, no.”

  “How did you come to fall?”

  “Old Collimore tripped me up,” replied the Duke of Edinburgh. “Wasn't his fault—it was all due to those blasted corgis of yours, Madge. I expect that one you call Titus started it. I just wish you'd get rid of the whole pack of them.”

  “Get rid of them?” said the Queen.

  “Yes, give 'em away to someone. Why don't you give 'em to Charles — they're Welsh, he's the Prince of Wales. Send 'em all down to Highgrove. Or give 'em to Anne. Or Andrew. Or Edward. Or what'shername, the Duchess of Thingamajig, you know?”

  The Queen drew herself up to her full modest height. “Generally speaking, Philip,” she said in an icy voice, “you do not forget yourself to this extent. May I remind you that I am Queen of England and will not be spoken to in this way. How dare you suggest that I should part with my beloved corgis!”

  “Only joking, Madge,” said her husband.

  “A joke,” said the Queen, “in the poorest of taste.” And she swept out of the room.

  Left to himself, Prince Philip stood, wryly regarding his reflection in a looking glass on the wall. “Well, well,” he said. “The old girl still packs a pretty good broadside. It's a wonder she didn't tell me to ‘Sit!' or ‘Stay!' ” He rang a bell.

  Shortly, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” shouted the Duke, and in came the red-haired footman, two of his fingers bandaged. The Duke looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “Married, Your Royal Highness?” said Patrick. “No, sir, I am not.”

  “Well, take my advice and don't bother. Or if you do, make sure that you're master in your own house. Now get me a drink and run me a nice hot bath. I've had enough of today.”

  When the Queen returned later, she found the red-haired footman on his knees, making up the fire. He sprang to his feet. “Where is Prince Philip, Patrick?” the Queen asked.

  The Duke of Edinburgh's private bathroom chanced to be immediately above that particular sitting room in Windsor Castle, and the footman instinctively gave an upward look at the ceiling as he answered, “His Royal Highness is taking a bath, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Patrick,” said the Queen. “You may leave the fire now, I'll see to it. How are your fingers, by the way?”

  “Sure they're fine, ma'am, thank you, ma'am.”

  “And John's had his seen to?”

  “Yes, ma'am. The doctor bandaged us both up. A nasty nip he said it was,” the footman told her, and he bowed and left the room, backward.

  The Queen sat down and patted her lap, and Titus jumped up onto it. “What a dreadful business! Whoever nipped the footmen's fingers, I'm sure it wasn't you, dear boy. It was probably poor old Chum. I wonder what that rumpus was all about? Pity you can't tell me.”

  Somehow Titus had a pretty good idea what the servant was saying. I'm sure you'd understand why I went for Chum, he thought. You'd do the same if someone had called your mother “a silly old fool.”

  The Queen and her dog sat comfortably together before the fire, and before long the royal eyes began to close. What with one thing and another, it had been a rather exhausting day for Her Majesty, and she dozed off. Titus, too, felt tired after the fight and happily settled on the royal lap (I'm a lapdog, he thought sleepily). He, too, was about to take a snooze when suddenly he heard a noise.

  It was only a little noise, a sort of plop, the sound a drip of water makes. He opened his eyes and saw that there was indeed a drip of water falling onto the carpet of the sitting room. He looked up and saw another drop fall, and another, and another, until there was a steady stream of water falling from a rapidly growing patch of damp on the ceiling, the ceiling that was directly below Prince Philip's private bathroom.

  Chapter Ten

  Something's up! thought Titus. Or rather, something's down! And he began to bark. The royal eyes opened smartly, to see what could only now be called a waterfall. Leaping from her chair, the Queen ran for the door, with Titus at her heels.

  Prince Philip's bath was not the usual sort. It had belonged to his wife's great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria. She had been very short, so her bath was very short too, which suited the Duke of Edinburgh well, for even though he was tall, he liked to sit up in the tub. Which was just as well, for if, on that particular evening, he had been lying down in it, as most people do, then the Queen would very probably have soon been referred to—as her great-great-grandmother had been—as the Widow of Windsor.

  As it was, the Duke sat up in his bathwater, a large glass of whiskey in the soap dish by his side, and reflected upon the events of the day. Madge and her wretched corgis, he thought. Lazy,
spoiled little brutes. All the same, there was one of them with a bit of character, the one that had caught the burgling footman. What was the dog's name? Ah yes, Titus, that was it.

  After a while the bathwater grew a little cool, and the Duke turned on the taps again. But then, lulled by the warm water and the whiskey, he began to feel rather sleepy. His chin dropped upon his chest, and the sound of his snores mingled with the splashing of water from the two still-running bath taps.

  Gradually the level in Queen Victoria's bath rose till it reached the overflow. Then, because the overflow couldn't cope with the volume of water, it rose higher, to the rim of the bath, then over the rim of the bath, and began to spill onto the floor. Through it all Prince Philip slept peacefully, till he was suddenly woken by a volley of barking coming from the room directly below.

  Not for nothing had the Duke served his time in the Royal Navy. Open the sea cock! he thought, and he yanked the plug out. And then, with a loud shout of “Abandon ship!” he leapt out of the bath.

  Hastily wrapping himself in a large towel, he waded across the sodden floor. As he reached the bathroom door, it was flung open, and there stood the figure of the Queen, at her heels a single corgi.

  “Sorry, Madge,” the Duke said damply. “I dropped off to sleep in the tub. Some dog barking woke me up.”

  “This dog woke you up,” replied the Queen. “This dog, my Titus. If it hadn't been for his watchfulness, the ceiling would probably have come down on top of us. Frankly, Philip, I have to say that we are not amused.”

  Then she looked again at the tall figure of her Consort, standing barefooted on the squelchy floor, clutching his damp bath towel around him, and dripping.

  Then she began to hoot with laughter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bewildered, Titus made his own way back to the great drawing room. Humans, he thought as he went, I don't understand them. I mean, look at our servant just now—one minute she was angry, the next she was laughing her head off. Perhaps it's because they're Royals — maybe they're different from other people. They must be, if you think about it, because everybody else treats them quite differently. I mean, look at the footmen, they go out of the room backward, and the maids, they curtsy, and Sir Gregory, he bows. Royal people must be very special.

  I wonder if royal dogs are too? After all, we corgis are the Queen's dogs, so maybe we're all princes and princesses. Prince Titus, how does that sound? Actually, I think I'd rather be a king among dogs. King Titus the First. Yes, that's more like it.

  “Wherever have you been?” Prissy asked her son when he came into the room. “You're all wet, your paws are soaking.” And all the other corgis gathered around Titus while he explained what had been going on.

  “The bathwater came right through the ceiling, you say?” Prissy asked.

  “Yes, right down into the Queen's sitting room.”

  “But why,” asked one of the other dogs, “hadn't Prince Philip turned the taps off ?”

  “He went to sleep in the bath,” Titus replied.

  “And she was angry with him?” asked someone else.

  “Yes, very.”

  “But then she started laughing, you say?” said another.

  “Yes,” said Titus. “I don't understand people. They don't seem to act normally, like dogs do.”

  “Well, dogs get angry sometimes, don't they?” said Prissy. “You did, with Chum.”

  “That wasn't anything to laugh at,” growled Chum, and he continued, unsuccessfully, to try to lick his injured ear.

  “Anyway,” said Prissy, “if I've got the story right, it was your barking that woke both of them up.”

  “Yes,” said Titus.

  “You seem to be making quite a name for yourself, my son,” Prissy said. “First catching a burglar, and now giving the alarm and saving the situation. What next, I wonder?

  If you keep on like this, you won't only be sleeping on the Queen's bed, you'll be eating off her plate, I shouldn't be surprised.”

  At that moment the Queen came into the room. All the dogs crowded around her, and she gave each a pat and gave a special stroking to Chum (“How's your poor ear feeling, old boy?”) and to Prissy (“How does it feel to be the mother of a hero, eh?”).

  Then she rang the bell, and when the black-mustached footman came in, she said, “Take all the dogs out onto the lawn, please, John.” When that had been done and the dogs were back in the drawing room, the Queen ordered custard creams all around (with an extra chocolate digestive for the hero). And when those had been eaten, she said, “Right, everybody, bedtime!” and nine corgis settled themselves comfortably in armchairs and on sofas while the tenth and youngest followed Her Majesty as she made her way to the State Bedroom.

  Once she herself was comfortably settled, the Queen turned out her bedside light. She yawned. Then she wiggled her toes against the warm shape that lay on the end of her bed. “G'night, Titus,” she said sleepily. “I may be a queen among my people, but you're a king among my dogs.”

  Chapter Twelve

  For most of his long life Sir Gregory Collimore had been in the service of the Royal Family, and for many years now he had been Comptroller of the Queen's Household at Windsor Castle. But for most of his long life Sir Gregory had had a very bad habit. He smoked cigarettes, lots of them, every day. And one day, before Titus was very much older, Sir Gregory's bad habit almost caused a disaster.

  It happened like this:

  The Comptroller came out of his office, closing the door behind him, and made his rather slow way along the corridors toward his private quarters. In an ashtray on his office desk lay the end of his latest cigarette. Maybe he had forgotten to stub it out, maybe he hadn't stubbed it out properly, but it was still alight.

  Then a little puff of wind came in through the open window, and the cigarette end rolled off the ashtray and onto some papers that lay on the desk. By a lucky chance Titus was on his way from the Queen's sitting room to the great drawing room, to pay a visit to his mother and all the other corgis, when he smelled smoke. A dog's sense of smell is many, many times sharper than a human's, and it was immediately plain to Titus that something was burning.

  That was nothing unusual, for there were dozens of fires of coal or logs all over Windsor Castle. But this smell, Titus's nose told him, was not of coal or logs. It was of burning paper. Just as in the matter of the burgling footman and the overflowing bath, Titus was immediately on the alert. Something, he knew, was wrong. Someone must be told about it.

  At that precise moment Prince Philip came in sight, marching along the corridor, and Titus turned and ran toward him. Now, though he cordially disliked almost all his wife's dogs, there was something about this particular one that had rather taken the Duke's fancy, and he said (in quite a pleasant voice), “Hello there, Titus. What's the hurry?”

  By now the smell of burning paper was very strong in the dog's little nose, though it had not yet reached the man's much bigger one, and in his anxiety Titus began to tug at the royal trouser cuffs.

  “Belay that!” growled the Duke of Edinburgh. “What the devil d'you think you're playing at?” But Titus continued to tug and to whine and then began to run a little way toward the burning smell and then back, again and again, till at last the Duke got the message and followed. Now he, too, smelled the smoke and broke into a run. Titus ran directly to the door of Sir Gregory Collimore's office and scratched at it, and the Duke flung it open, to see a great many papers burning merrily away on the Comptroller's desk, itself now alight. Now was the moment when Prince Philip's naval training came into play.

  “England expects every man will do his duty!” he shouted, and his duty indeed he did, regardless of his own safety. There was no fire brigade to be summoned or fire hoses to be brought to bear, as there would have been on board ship. But the Duke saw immediately that in the absence of water, the growing fire must quickly be smothered. But with what? There was no handy rug—the floor of the Comptroller's office had wall-to-wall carpeti
ng—but on the wall behind the burning desk, there hung a large picture, a portrait of Sir Gregory Collimore in full ceremonial dress.

  Quickly the Duke of Edinburgh yanked the portrait from its hangings and somehow found the strength (for it was very heavy) to slam the painted Sir Gregory down upon the fire, face first, and thus to extinguish the flames.

  “Phew!” he said, mopping his royal brow. “That could have been very nasty, Titus. In fact, if it hadn't been for you, it would have been very nasty. Come on, old chap, we'll go and tell Madge. This will be worth a good few custard creams to you. Might even get one myself if I'm lucky.”

  When the Queen was told, her first thought was for her favorite. “You're not hurt, Titus, are you?” she said. “You haven't burned your paws?”

  “I put the fire out, you know, Madge,” said the Duke in a rather hurt voice. He held out his hands, black from his firefighting efforts. “And my paws are dirty.”

  “Yes, yes, Philip, so you said. But it was my clever little Titus that gave the alarm again.” And she rang for a footman. When the custard creams came, she began to feed them to Titus, disregarding the ten pairs of eyes (nine corgis and a duke) that were watching hungrily.

  “He's a king among dogs, don't you think, Philip?” she said.

  “Well, I'm a prince among men.”

  “Oh, all right,” said the Queen. “You can have one if you like.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that day Queen Elizabeth the Second and her husband, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, sat watching television together, as many elderly couples do. This couple, however, seldom did, their tastes in viewing being very different. But now something seemed to have made them more companionable. They sat side by side upon a sofa, between them the plump brown body of Titus, and the Queen suddenly noticed that her husband was absently fondling the dog's big ears.