 5 Part 1 Here come I to my own again, fed, forgiven, and known again, claimed by bone of my bone again, and sieb to flesh of my flesh. The fatted calf is dressed for me, but husks have greater zest for me. I think my pigs will be best for me, so I'm off to the sties afresh. The prodigal son, once more the lazy string-tides' shuffling procession got under way, and she slept till they reached the next halting stage. It was a very short march, and the time lacked an hour to sundown, so Kim cast about for means of amusement. "'But why not sit and rest?' said one of the escort. Only the devils and the English walk to and fro without reason. Never make friends with a devil, a monkey, or a boy. No man knows what they will do next,' said his fellow. Kim turned a scornful back. He did not want to hear the old story how the devil played with boys and repented of it, and walked idly across country. The lama strode after him. All that day, whenever they passed a stream, he had turned aside to look at it, but in no case had he received any warning that he had found his river. Insensibly to the comfort of speaking to someone in a reasonable tongue, and of being properly considered and respected as her spiritual adviser by a well-born woman, had weaned his thoughts a little from the search. And further he was prepared to spend serene years in his quest, having nothing of the white man's impatience, but a great faith. "'Wither gauris thou,' he called after Kim. "'No wither. It was a small march, and all this,' Kim waved his hands abroad, "'is new to me. "'She is without question a wise and discerning woman, but it is hard to meditate when—' "'All women are thus,' Kim spoke, as might have Solomon. "'Before the lama's sari was a broad platform,' the lama muttered, loping up the well-worn rosary. "'Of stone! On that I have left the marks of my feet, pacing to and fro with these.' He clicked the beads, and began the old-money pud-me-hums of his devotion. Grateful for the cool, the quiet, and the absence of dust. One thing after another drew Kim's idle eye across the plain. There was no purpose in his wanderings, except that the build of the hut's nearby seemed new, and he wished to investigate. They had come out on a broad tract of grazing-ground, brown and purple in the afternoon light, with a heavy clump of mangoes in the centre. It struck Kim as curious that no shrine stood in so eligible a spot. The boy was observing as any priest for these things. Far across the plain walked side by side four men, made small by the distance. He looked intently under his curved palms, and caught the sheen of brass. "'Soldiers, white soldiers,' said he, "'let us see. It is always soldiers when thou and I go out alone together, but they have never seen the white soldiers.' They do no harm except when they are drunk. Keep behind this tree.' They stepped behind the thick trunks in the cool dark of the mango-tope. Two little figures halted. The other two came forward, uncertainly. They were the advance party of a regiment on the march, sent out, as usual, to mark the camp. They bore five-foot sticks with fluttering flags, and called to each other as they spread over the flat earth. At last they entered the mango grove, walking heavily. "'It's here or hereabouts. Officers tense under the trees. I take it, and the rest of us can stay outside. Have they marked out for the baggage wagons yet?' They cried out again to their comrades in the distance, and the rough answer came back faint and mellowed. "'Shall I have the flag in here, then?' said one. "'What do they prepare?' said the lama, one destruct. "'This is a great and a terrible world. What is that device on the flag?' A soldier thrust a stave within a few feet of them, grunted discontentedly, pulled it up again, confirmed with his companion, who looked up and down the shaded cave of greenery, and returned it. Him stared with all his eyes, his breath coming short and sharp between his teeth. The soldiers stamped off into the sunshine. "'Oh, holy one!' he gasped. My horoscope! The drawing in the dust by the priest at Umbala. Remember what he said? First come two, ferocious, to make all things ready, in a dark place, as it is always at the beginning of a vision.' "'But this is not vision,' said the lama. It is the world's illusion, and no more. And after them comes the bull, the red bull, on the green field. Look! It is he!' He pointed to the flag that was snap snapping in the evening breeze, not ten feet away. It was no more than an ordinary camp-marking flag. But the regiment, always punctilious in matters of millinery, had charged it with the regimental device—the red bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the great red bull, on a background of Irish green. "'I see, and now I remember,' said the lama. "'Certainly it is thy bull. Certainly also the two men came to make all ready.' "'They are soldiers, white soldiers. What said the priest? The sign over against the bull is the sign of war and armed men. Holy one! This thing touches my search.' "'True! It is true!' The lama stared fixedly at the device that flamed like a ruby in the dusk. The priest at Dambala said that thine was the sign of war. What is to do now? Wait! Let us wait! Even now the darkness clears,' said Kim. It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks across the grove, filling it with merely gold light for a few minutes. But to Kim it was crown of the Umbala Brahmin's prophecy. "'Hark!' said the lama. One beats a drum, far off!' At first the sound carrying diluted through the still air resembled the beating of an artery in the head. Soon a sharpness was added. "'Ah! the music!' Kim explained. He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama. At the far end of the plane a heavy, dusty column crawled into sight. Then the wind brought the tune. We crave your condescension to tell you what we know of marching in the Mulligan Guards to Sligo Port below. Here broke in the shrill-tongued fiefs. We shouldered arms, we marched, we marched away. From Phoenix Park we marched to Dublin Bay. The drums and the fiefs, oh, sweetly they did play, as we marched, marched, marched with the Mulligan Guards. It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp, for the men were root-marching with their baggage. The rippling columns swung into the level, carts behind it, headed left and right, ran about like an anthill, and, "'Ah! this is sorcery!' said the lama. The plane dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise all spread from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants. And behold! the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched. "'Let us go!' said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires twinkled and the white officers with jingling swords stalked into the mess-tent. "'Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of the fire,' said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes. "'Look! Look! Look!' clucked the lama. "'Yonder comes a priest!' It was Bennett, the Church of England chaplain of the regiment, limping in dusty black. One of his flock had made some rude remarks about the chaplain's metal, and to abash him Bennett had marched step by step with the men that day. The black dress, gold cross on the watch-chain, the hairless face, and the soft black white-awake hat would have marked him as a holy man anywhere in all India. He dropped into a camp-chair by the door of the mess-tent and slid off his boots. Three or four officers gathered round him, laughing and joking over his exploit. "'The talk of white man is wholly lacking in dignity,' said the lama, who judged only by tone, "'but I have considered the countenance of that priest, and I think he is learned. Is it likely that he will understand our talk? I would talk to him of my search.' "'Never speak to a white man till he is fed,' said Kim, writing a well-known proverb. "'They will eat now, and I do not think they are good to beg from. Let us go back to the resting-place. After we have eaten, we will come again. It certainly was a red bull—my red bull.' They were both noticeably absent-minded when the old lady's retinue set their meal before them, so none broke their reserve, for it is not lucky to annoy guests. "'Now,' said Kim, picking his teeth, "'we will return to that place, but thou—oh, holy one—must wait a little way off, because thy feet are heavier than mine, and I am anxious to see more of that red bull.' "'But how can't thou understand the talk? Walk slowly.' "'The road is dark,' the lama replied uneasily.' Kim put the question aside. "'I marked a place near to the trees,' said he, "'where thou can't sit till I call.' "'Nay,' as the lama made some sort of protest, "'remember, this is my search—the search for my red bull. The sign in the stars was not for thee. I know a little of the customs of the white soldiers, and I always desire to see some new things.' "'What dost thou not know of this world?' The lama squatted obediently in a little hollow of the ground, not a hundred yards from the hump of the mango trees, dark against the star-powdered sky. "'Stay till I call.' Kim flitted into the dusk. He knew that in all probability there would be centuries round the camp, and smiled to himself as he heard the thick boots of one. A boy who can dodge over the roofs of Lahore City on a moonlit night, using every little patch and corner of darkness to discomfort his pursuer, is not likely to be checked by a line of well-trained soldiers. He paid them the compliment of crawling between a couple and running and halting, crouching and dropping flat, worked his way toward the lighted mess-tent, where, close-pressed behind the mango tree, he waited till some chance word should give him a returnable lead. The one thing now in his mind was further information as to the Red Bull. For ought he knew, and Kim's limitations were as curious and sudden as his expansions, the men, the nine hundred thorough devils of his father's prophecy, might pray to the beast after dark, as Hindus pray to the Holy Cow. That at least would be entirely right and logical, and the Padre with the gold cross would be there for the man to consult in the matter. On the other hand, remembering sober-faced Padres whom he had avoided in Lahore City, the priest might be an inquisitive nuisance who would bid him learn. But had it not been proven at Umballa that his sign in the High Heavens portended war, an armed men, was he not the friend of the stars, as well as of all the world, crammed to the teeth with dreadful secrets? Lastly, and firstly, as the undercurrent of all his quick thoughts, this adventure, though he did not know the English word, was a stupendous lark, a delightful continuation of his old flights across the housetops, as well as the fulfilment of sublime prophecy. He lay belly-flacked and wriggled toward the mess-tent door, a hand on the amulet round his neck. It was as he suspected, the Saibs prayed to their God, for in the centre of the mess-table its sole ornament, when they were on the line of March, stood a golden bull fashioned from old-time loot of the summer palace at Pekin, a red-gold bull with lowered head, ramping upon a field of Irish green. To him the Saibs held out their glasses, and cried aloud confusedly. Now the Reverend Arthur Bennett always left mess after that toast, and being rather tired by his march his movements were more abrupt than usual. Kim, with slightly raised head, was still staring at his totem on the table when the chaplain stepped on his right shoulder-blade. Kim flinched under the leather, and rolling sideways brought down the chaplain, who, ever a man of action, caught him by the throat, and nearly choked a life out of him. Kim then kicked him desperately in the stomach. Mr. Bennett gasped and doubled up, but without relaxing his grip, rolled over again, and silently hauled Kim to his own tent. The mavericks were incurable practical jokers, and it occurred to the Englishman that silence was best till he had made complete inquiry. Why, it's a boy, he said, as he drew his prize under the light of the tent-pole lantern, then, shaking him severely, cried, What were you doing? You're a thief, chur! Malum! His Hindustani was very limited, and the ruffled and disgraced Kim intended to keep to the character laid down for him. As he recovered his breath he was inventing a beautifully plausible tale of his relations to some scullion, and at the same time keeping a keen eye on and a little under the chaplain's left armpit. The chance came. He ducked for a doorway, but a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck, snapping the amulet string, and closing on the amulet. Give it me! Oh, give it me! Is it last? Give me the papers! The words were in English. The tinny, sore-cut English of the native bread, and the chaplain jumped. A scapula! he said, opening his hand. No, some sort of heathen charm. Why? Why do you speak English? Little boys who steal are beaten. Do you know that? I do not. I do not steal. Kim danced in agony like a terrier as a lifted stick. Oh, give it me! It is my charm. Do you not thieve it from me? The chaplain took no heed, but going to the tent door called aloud. A fatish, clean-shaven man appeared. I want your advice, Father Victor," said Bennett. I found this boy in the dark outside the mess-tent. Ordinarily I should have chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief. But it seems he talks English and he attaches some sort of value to a charm round his neck. I thought perhaps you might help me. Between himself and the Roman Catholic chaplain of the Irish contingent lay, as Bennett believed, an unbridgeable gulf. But it was noticeable that whenever the Church of England dealt with a human problem she was very likely to call in the Church of Rome. Its official abhorrence of the scarlet woman and all her ways was only equalled by his private respect for Father Victor. A thief talking English is it. Let's look at his charm. No, it's not a scapula, Bennett. He held out his hand. But have we any right to open it? A sound whipping. I did not thieve, protested Kim. You have hit me kits all over my body. Now give me my charm, and I will go away. Not quite so fast. We'll look first," said Father Victor, leisurely rolling out poor Kimball O'Hara's knee-variateur parchment, his clearance certificate, and Kim's baptismal certificate. On this last, O'Hara, with some confused idea that he was doing wonders for his son, had scrawled scores of times. Look after the boy. Please look after the boy." Signing his name and regimental number in full. "'Paris of darkness below,' said Father Victor, passing all over to Mr. Bennett. Do you know what these things are?' "'Yes,' said Kim. They are mine, and I want to go away.' "'I do not quite understand,' said Mr. Bennett. He probably brought them on purpose. It may be a begging trick of some kind.' I never saw a beggar less anxious to stay with his company, then. Does the making of a gay mystery here, do you believe in Providence, Bennett? I hope so. Well, I believe in miracles, so it comes to the same thing. Paris of darkness, Kimball O'Hara, and his son. But then he's a native, and I saw Kimball married himself to Annie's shot. How long have you had these things, boy? Ever since I was a little baby?' Father Victor stepped forward quickly and opened the front of Kim's upper garment. "'You see, Bennett, he's not very black.' "'What's your name?' "'Kim.' "'Or Kimball?' "'Perhaps. Will you let me go away?' "'What else?' "'They call me Kim-Rishti-ki, that is Kim of the Rishti.' "'What is that, Rishti?' "'Irishti, that was the regiment of my father's.' "'Irish, oh, I see.' "'Yes, that was how my father told me, my father, he has lived.' "'He has lived where?' "'Has lived?' "'Of course, he's dead, gone out.' "'Oh, that's your abrupt way of putting it, is it?' "'Bennett interrupted. "'It is possible that I have done the boy an injustice. He is certainly white, though evidently neglected. I'm sure I must have bruised him. I do not think spirits.' "'Get him a glass of cherry, then, and let him squat on the cot.' "'Now, Kim,' continued Father Victor, "'no one is going to hurt you. Drink that down, and tell us about yourself. The truth, if you have no objection.' End of Chapter 5, Part 1. Chapter 5, Part 2. Kim coughed a little as he put down the empty glass and considered. This seemed a time for caution and fancy. Small boys who prowl about camps are generally turned out after a whipping, but he had received no stripes. The amulet was evidently working in his favour, and it looked as though the Umbulla horoscope, and the few words he could remember of his father's morderings, fitted in most miraculously. Else, why did the fat Padre seem so impressed, and why the glass of hot yellow drink from the lean one? My father, he is dead in Lahore City since I was very little. The woman, she kept Kibari shop, near where the higher carriages are. Kim began with a plunge, not quite sure how far the truth would serve him. Your mother? No, with a gesture of disgust. She went out when I was born. My father, he got these papers from the Jadu gear. What you call that? Bennett nodded. Because he was in good standing. What do you call that? Again Bennett nodded. My father told me that, he said to, and also the Brahmin who made the drawing in the dust at Umbulla two days ago, he said that I shall find a red bull in a green field, and that the bull shall help me. A phenomenal little liar! muttered Bennett. Paris of darkness below! What a contrary! murmured Father Victor. Go on, Kim. I did not thieve. Besides, I am just now disciple of a very holy man. He is sitting outside. We saw two men come with flags, making the place ready. That is always so in a dream, or an account of a prophecy. So I knew it was come true. I saw the red bull on the green field, and my father, he said, Nine hundred pucker devils, and the Colonel riding on a horse will look after you when you find the red bull. I did not know what to do when I saw the bull, but I went away, and I came back when it was dark. I wanted to see the bull again, and I saw the bull again with the the Sahibs praying to it. I think the bull shall help me. The holy man said so too. He is sitting outside. Will you hurt him if I call him a shout now? He is very holy. He can witness to all the things that I say, and he knows I am not a thief. Sahibs praying to a bull? What in the world do you make of that? said Bennett. Disciple of a holy man? Is the boy mad? It's O'Hara's boy, sure enough. O'Hara's boy leagued with the powers of the devil. It's very much what his father would have done, if he were strong. We'd better invite the holy man. He may know something. He does not know anything, said Kim. I will show you him if you come. He is my master. Then afterwards we can go. Powers of darkness! Was all that Father Victor could say, as Bennett marched off with a firm hand on Kim's shoulder. They found the lama where he had dropped. The search is at an end for me, shouted Kim in the vernacular. I have found the bull, but God knows what comes next. They will not hurt you. Come to the fat priest's tent with this thin man, and see the end. It is all new, and they cannot talk hindi. They are only uncurried donkeys. Then it is not well to make a jest of their ignorance. The lama returned. I am glad if thou art rejoiced, Jailer. Dignified and unsuspicious, he strode into the little tent, saluted the churches as a churchman, and sat down by the open charcoal-brazier. The yellow lining of the tent, reflected in the lamp-light, made his face red-gold. Bennett looked at him with the triple-ringed uninterest of the creed that lumps nine-tenths of the world under the title of heathen. And what was the end of the search? What gift has the red bull bought? The lama addressed himself to Kim. He says, what are you going to do? Bennett was staring uneasily at Father Victor, and Kim, for his own ends, took upon himself the office of interpreter. I do not see what concern this fakir has with the boy, who is probably his dupe or his confederate. Bennett began, we cannot allow an English boy, assuming that he is the son of a mason, soon he goes to the Masonic orphanage the better. Ah, that's your opinion as the secretary to the regimental ludge, said Father Victor. But we might as well tell the old man what we're going to do too. He doesn't look like a villain. My experience is that one can never fathom the oriental mind. Now, Kimble, I wish you to tell this man what I say, word for word. Kim gathered the import of the next few sentences, and began thus. Holy One! The thin fool who looks like a camel says that I am the son of a saib. But how? Oh, it is true. I knew it since my birth, but he could only find it out by renting the amulet from my neck, and reading all the papers. He thinks that once a saib is always a saib, and between the two of them they propose to keep me in this regiment, or send me to a madricia a school. It has happened before. I've always avoided it. The fat fool is of one mind, and the camel-like one of another. But that is no odds. I may spend one night here, and perhaps the next. It has happened before. Then I will run away and return to thee. Ah, tell them that thou art my chela. Tell them how thou dost come to me when I was faint and bewildered. Tell them of our search, and they will surely let thee go now. I've already told them they laugh and they talk of the police. What are you saying? asked Mr. Bennett. Oh, he only says that if you do not let me go, it will stop him in his business, his urgent private affairs. This last was a reminiscence of some talk with the Eurasian clerk in the canal department, but it only drew a smile which netled him, and if you did know what his business was, you would not be in such a beastly hurry to interfere. What is it, then? said Father Victor, not without feeling as he watched the larmer's face. There is a river in this country which he wishes to find so very much. It was put out by an arrow which Kim tapped his foot impatiently as he translated in his own mind from the vernacular to the clumsy English. Oh, it was made by our Lord God Buddha, you know, and if you watched there, you are washed away from all your sins and made as white as cotton wool. Kim had heard mission talk in his time. I'm his disciple, and we must find that river. It is so very valuable to us. Say that again, said Bennett. Kim obeyed with amplifications. But this is gross blasphemy, cried the Church of England. Chacha! said Father Victor sympathetically. I'd give a great deal to be able to talk the vernacular, a river that washes away sin, and how long have you two been lookinger for it? Oh, many days. Now we wish to go away and look for it again. It is not here, you see. I see, said Father Victor, gravely, but he can't go on in that old man's company. It would be different, Kim, if you were not a soldier's son. Tell him that the regiment will take care of you, and make you as good a man as your—as good a man as can be. Tell him that if he believes in miracles, he must believe that. There is no need to play on his credulity, Bennett interrupted. I'm doing no such thing. He must believe that the boy's coming here to his own regiment, in such if his red bull is in the nature of a miracle. Consider the chances against it, Bennett. This one boy in all India, and all regiment of all others on the line of march for him to meet with. It's predestined on the face of it. Yes, tell him it, Kismet. Kismet Malum, do you understand? He turned towards the lama to whom he might as well have talked of Mesopotamia. They say—the old man's eye lighted at Kim's speech—they say that the meaning of my horoscope is now accomplished, and that, being led back, though as thou knowest, I went out of curiosity to these people in their red bull, I must need go to a Madrisha and be turned into a Saib. Now I make pretence of agreement, for at the worst it will only be a few meals eaten away from thee. Then I will slip away and follow down the road to Sarampur. Therefore, holy one, keep with that Kula woman on no account stray far from her cart till I come again. Past question my sign is of war, and of armed men. See how they have given me wine to drink, and set me upon a bed of honour. My father must have been some great person. So if they raise me to honour among them, good. If not, good again. However it goes, I will run back to thee when I am tired. But stay with the Rajputni, or I shall miss thy feet. Oh yes, said the boy. I have told him everything you tell me to say. And I cannot see any need why he should wait, said Bennett, feeling in his trouser pocket. We could investigate the details later, and I will give him a ru, give him time. Maybe he is fond of the lad, said Father Victor, half-arresting the clergyman's motion. The lama dragged forth his rosary, and pulled his huge hat-brim over his eyes. What can he want now? He says, Kim put up one hand, he says, be quiet. He wants to speak to me by himself. You see, you do not know one little word of what he says, and I think if you talk he will perhaps give you very bad curses. When he takes those bees like that, you see, he wants to be quiet. The two Englishmen sat overwhelmed, but there was a look in Bennett's eye that promised ill for Kim when he should be relaxed to the religious arm. A saib, and the son of a saib. The lama's voice was harsh with pain. But no white man knows the land, and the customs of the land, as thou knowest. How comes it this is true? What matter, Holy One? But remember, it is only for a night or two. Remember, I can change swiftly. It will all be as it was when I first spoke to thee, under Zamzamar, the great gun. As a boy in the dress of white men, when I first went to the Wonderhouse, and a second time, thou watched a Hindu. What shall the third incarnation be? He chuckled drearily. Ah, Chaila, thou hast done a wrong to an old man, because my heart went out to thee, and mine to thee. But how can I know that the Red Bull would bring me to this business? The lama covered his face afresh, and nervously rattled the rosary. Kim squatted beside him, and laid hold upon a fold of his clothing. Now it is understood that the boy's a saib. He went on in a muffled tone, such a saib as was he who kept the images in the Wonderhouse. The lama's experience of white men was limited. He seemed to be repeating a lesson. So then it is not seemly that he should do other than as the saibs do. He must go back to his own people. For a day and a night, and a day, Kim pleaded. No, ye don't. Father Victor saw Kim edging towards the door, and interposed a strong leg. I do not understand the customs of white men. The priest of the images in the Wonderhouse in Lahore was more courteous than the thin one here. This boy will be taken from me. They will make a saib of my disciple? Woe to me! How shall I find my river? Have they no disciples? Ask! He says he is very sorry that he cannot find the river now any more. He says, why have you no disciples, and stop bothering him? He wants to be washed of his sins. Neither Bennett nor Father Victor found any answer ready. Said Kim in English, distressed for the lama's agony. I think if you will let me go now we will walk away quietly and not steal. We will look for that river, like before I was caught. I wish I did not come here to find the red bull, and all that sort of thing. I do not want it. It's the very best day's work you ever did for yourself, young man," said Bennett. Good heavens! I don't know how to console him, said Father Victor, watching the lama intently. He can't take the boy away with him. And yet he's a good man. I'm sure he's a good man. Bennett, if you give him that rupee, he'll curse your root and branch. They listened to each other's breathing. Three, five full minutes. Then the lama raised his head and looked forth across them into space and emptiness. And I am a follower of the way, he said bitterly. The sin is mine, and the punishment is mine. I made belief to myself. For now I see it was but make belief that thou was sent to me to aid in the search. So my heart went out to thee for thy charity, and thy courtesy, and the wisdom of thy little years. But those who follow the way must permit not the fire of any desire or attachment, for that is all illusion. As says—he quoted an old, old Chinese text—backed it with another, and reinforced these with a third. I stepped aside from the way, my chela. It was no fault of thine. I delighted in the sight of life the new people upon the roads. And in thy joy at seeing these things. I was pleased with thee who should have considered my search, and my search alone. Now I am sorrowful, because thou art taken away, and my river is far from me. It is the law which I have broken. Powerous of darkness below, said Father Victor, who, wise in the confessional, heard the pain in every sentence. I can see now that the sign of the red bull was a sign for me, as well as for thee. All desire is red and evil. I will do penance and find my river alone. At least go back to the Kulu woman, said Kim, otherwise thou will be lost upon the roads. She will feed thee till I run back to thee. The lama waved a hand to show that the matter was finally settled in his mind. Now his tone altered as he turned to Kim. What will they do with thee? At least I may, acquiring merit, wipe out past ill. Make me a saib, so they think. The day after tomorrow I return, do not grieve. Of what sort? Such and one as this or that man? He pointed to Father Victor. Such and one of those I saw this evening, men wearing swords, and stamping heavily. Maybe? That is not well. These men follow desire and come to emptiness. Thou must not be of their sort. The Ambala priest said that my star was war, Kim interjected. I will ask these fools, but there is truly no need. I will run away this night, for all I wanted to see the new things. Kim put two or three questions in English to Father Victor, translating the replies to the lama. Then he says, you take him from me, and you cannot say what you will make him. He says, tell me before I go, for it is not a small thing to make a child. You will be sent to a school. Later on we shall see. Kimble, I suppose you'd like to be a soldier. Gotta log, white folk. Noah! Noah! Kim shook his head violently. There was nothing in his composition to which drill and routine appealed. I will not be a soldier. You will be what you're told to be, said Bennett, and you should be grateful that we're going to help you. Kim smiled compassionately. If these men lay under the delusion that he would do anything that he did not fancy, so much the better. Another long silence followed. Bennett fidgeted with impatience and suggested calling a sentry to evict the fakir. Do they give or sell learning among the Sahibs? Ask them, said the lama and Kim interpreted. They say that money is paid to the teacher, but that money the regiment will give. What need? It is only for a night. And the more money is paid the better learning is given? The lama disregarded Kim's plans for an early flight. It is no wrong to pay for learning, to help the ignorant to wisdom is always a merit. The rosary clicked furiously as an abacus. Then he faced his oppressors. Ask them for how much money do they give a wise and suitable teaching, and in what city is that teaching given? Well, said Father Victor in English, when Kim had translated, that depends. The regiment would pay fear all the time you were at the military orphanage, or you might go on to the Punjab Masonic orphanages list. Not that he or you would understand what that means, but the best schooling a boy can get in India is, of course, at Saint Xavier's, in Partybus, at Lucknell. This took some time to interpret, for Bennett wished to cut it short. He wants to know how much, said Kim placidly. Two or three hundred rupees a year. Father Victor was long past any sense of amazement. Bennett, impatient, did not understand. He says, write that name and the money upon a paper and give it to him. And he says you must write your name below, because he is going to write a letter in some days to you. He says you are a good man. He says the other man is a fool. He is going away. The lama rose suddenly. I will follow my search, he cried, and was gone. He'll run slap into the centuries, cried Father Victor, jumping up as the lama stalked out. But I can't leave the boy. Kim made swift motion to follow, but checked himself. There was no sound of challenge outside. The lama had disappeared. Kim settled himself composedly on the chaplain's cot. At least the lama had promised that he would stay with the Rajput woman from Kulu, and the rest was of the smallest importance. It pleased him that the two Padres were so evidently excited. They talked long in undertones. Father Victor urging some scheme upon Mr. Bennett, who seemed incredulous. All this was very new and fascinating, but Kim felt sleepy. They called men into the tent. One of them certainly was the colonel, as his father had prophesied. And they asked him an infinity of questions, chiefly about the woman who had looked after him, all of which Kim answered truthfully. They did not seem to think the woman a good guardian. After all, this was the newest of his experiences. Sooner or later, if he chose, he could escape into great grey, formless India, beyond tents and Padres and kernels. Meanwhile, if the Saibs were to be impressed, he would do his best to impress them. He too was a white man. After much talk that he could not comprehend, they handed him over to a sergeant who had strict instructions not to let him escape. The regiment would go on to Umballa, and Kim would be sent up, partly at the expense of the lodge, and in part by subscription, to a place called Sanawar. It's miraculous past all whooping, Colonel, said Father Victor, when he had talked without a break for ten minutes. His Buddhist friend has levanted after taking my name and address. I can't make out whether he'll pay for the boy's education, or whether he's preparing some sort of witchcraft on his own account. Then to Kim, you'd live to be grateful to your friend the Red Bull yet. We'll make a man of you at Sanawar, even at the price of making you a Protestant. Certainly, most certainly, said Bennett. But you will not go to Sanawar, said Kim. But we will go to Sanawar, little man. That's the order of the commander-in-chief, who is a trifle more important than Ohara's son. You will not go to Sanawar. You will go to the war. There was a shout of laughter from the full tent. When you know your own regiment a trifle better, you won't confuse the line of march with line of battle, Kim. We hope to go to the war, some time. Oh, I know all that. Kim drew his bow again at a venture. If they were not going to the war, at least they did not know what he knew of the talk on the veranda and ombala. I know you are not at the war now. But I tell you, that as soon as you get to ombala, you will be sent to the war, the new war. It is a war of eight thousand men, besides the guns. That's explicit. Do you add prophecy to your other gifts? Take him along, Sergeant. Take up suit for him from the drums, and take care he doesn't slip through your fingers. Who says the age of miracles has gone by? I think I'll go to bed. My poor mind's weakening. At the far end of the camp, silent as a wild animal, an hour later sat Kim, newly washed all over in a horrible stuff suit that rasped his arms and legs. A most amazing young bird, said the Sergeant. He turns up in charge of a yellow-headed buck bram in priest, with his father's lodge certificates round his neck, talking god knows what of all a red bull. The buck bram in evaporates without explanations, and the boy sets cross-legged on the chaplain's bed, prophesying bloody war to the men at large. Ingers a wild land for a godfury man. I'll just tie his leg to the tent pole, in case he'll go through the roof. What do you say about the war? Eight thousand men. Besides guns, said Kim, very soon you will see. You're a consoling little imp. Lie down between the drums, and go to bye-bye. Those two boys will watch your slumbers. CHAPTER VI Now I remember comrades, old playmates on new seas, when as we traded opiment among the savages. Ten thousand leagues to southward, and thirty years removed, they knew not noble Valdes, but me they knew and loved. Song of Diego Valdes Very early in the morning the white tents came down and disappeared as the mavericks took a side-road to Umbala. It did not skirt the resting pace, and Kim, trudging beside a baggage-cart under fire of comments from soldiers' wives, was not so confident as overnight. He discovered that he was closely watched. Father Victor on the one side, and Mr. Bennett on the other. In the forenoon the column checked. A camel orderly handed the colonel a letter. He read it, and spoke to a major. Half a mile in the rear, Kim heard a horse and joyful clamour rolling down on him through the thick dust. Then some one beat him on the back, crying, Tell us how you knew your little limb of Satan! Father dear, see if you can make him tell. A pony raged alongside, and he was hauled on to the priest's saddle-bow. No, my son, your prophecy of last night was come true. Our orders are to entrain at Umbala for the front to-morrow. What is that? said Kim, for front and entrain were newish words to him. We're going to the war, as you called it. Of course you are going to the war, I said last night. You're dead, but powers are darkness. How did you know? Kim's eyes sparkled. He shut his lips, nodded his head, and looked unspeakable things. The chaplain moved on through the dust, and privates, sergeants, and subletons called one another's attention to the boy. The colonel at the head of the column stared at him curiously. It was probably some bizarre rumour, he said, but even then. He referred to the paper in his hand. Hang it all. The thing was only decided within the last forty-eight hours. Are there many more like you in India? said Father Victor. Or are you, boy, the way of being a loosest natural-loy? Now I have told you, said the boy. Will you let me go back to my old man? If he has not stayed with that woman from Kulu, I'm afraid he will die. But what I saw of him, he's well able to take care of himself as you. No. You've brought us luck, and we're going to make a man of you. I'll take you back to your baggage-cart, and you'll come to me this evening. For the rest of the day, Kim found himself an object of distinguished consideration among a few hundred white men. The story of his appearance in camp, the discovery of his parentage, and his prophecy had lost nothing in the telling. A big shapeless white woman on a pile of bedding asked Kim mysteriously whether he thought her husband would come back from the war. Kim reflected gravely and said that he would, and the woman gave him food. In many respects this big procession that played music at intervals, this crowd that talked and laughed so easily, resembled a festival in Lahore City. So far there was no sign of hard work, and he resolved to lend the spectacle his patronage. At evening there came out to meet them bands of music, and played the Mavericks into camp near Umballa railway station. That was an interesting night. Men of other regiments came to visit the Mavericks. The Mavericks went visiting on their own account. Their pickets, hired forth to bring them back, met pickets of strange regiments on the same duty, and after a while the bugles blew madly for more pickets with officers to control the tumult. The Mavericks had a reputation for liveliness to live up to, but they fell in on the platform next morning in perfect shape and condition, and Kim, left behind with the sick women and boys, found himself shouting farewells excitedly as the trains drew away. Life as a saib was amusing so far, but he touched it with a cautious hand. Then they marched him back in charge of a drummer boy to empty lime-washed barracks, whose floors were covered with rubbish and string and paper, and whose ceilings gave back his lonely footfall. Native fashion he curled himself up on a striped cot and went to sleep. An angry man stumped down the veranda, woke him up, and said he was a schoolmaster. This was enough for Kim, and he retired into his shell. He could just puzzle out the various English police notices in Lahore City, because they affected his comfort, and among the many guests of the women who looked after him had been a queer German who painted scenery for the Farsi travelling theatre. He told Kim that he had been on the barricades in forty-eight, and therefore, at least that was how it struck Kim, he would teach the boy to write in return for food. Kim had been kicked as far as single letters, but did not think well of them. I do not know anything, go away! said Kim, sending evil. Hereupon the man caught him by the ear, dragged him to a room in a far-off wing, where a dozen drummer boys were sitting on forms, and told him to be still, if he could do nothing else. This he managed very successfully. The man explained something or other with white lines on a black board for at least half an hour, and Kim continued his interrupted nap. He much disapproved of the present state of affairs, for this was the very school and discipline he had spent two-thirds of his young life in avoiding. Suddenly a beautiful idea occurred to him, and he wondered that he had not thought of it before. Said a high voice at his heels. I've got to look after you. My orders are not to let you out of my sight. Where are you going? It was the drummer boy who had been hanging around him all the forenoon, a fat and freckled person of about fourteen, and Kim loathed him from the soles of his boots to the bazaar to get sweets for you. Said Kim after a thought. Well, the bazaar's out of bounds, and if we go there we'll get a dressing down. You come back. How near can we go? Kim did not know what bounds meant, but he wished to be polite for the present. How near? How far, you mean? We can go as far as that tree down the road. Then I will go there. All right. I ain't going. It's too hot. I can watch you from here. It's no good running away. If you did, they'd spot you by your clothes. That's regimental stuff you're wearing. There ain't a picket in embaler. Wouldn't edge you back quicker than you started out. This did not impress Kim as much as the knowledge that his raiment would tie him out if he tried to run. He slouched to the tree at the corner of a bare road leading toward the bazaar and eyed the natives' passing. Most of them were barrack servants of the lowest caste. Kim held a sweeper who promptly retorted with a piece of unnecessary insolence in the natural belief that the European boy could not follow it. The low, quick answer undeceived him. Kim put his fettered soul into it, thankful for the late chance to abuse somebody in the tongue he knew best. And now go to the nearest letter-writer in the bazaar and tell him to come here. I would write a letter. But what manner of white man's son are thou to need a bazaar letter-writer? Is there not a schoolmaster in the barracks? Aye, and hell is full of the same sort. Do my order. You, you owed. Thy mother was married under a basket. Servant of l'albegue, Kim knew the God of the sweepers. Run on my business, or we will talk later. The sweeper shuffled off in haste. There is a white boy by the barracks waiting under a tree. Who is not a white boy? He stammered to the first bazaar letter-writer he came across. He needs thee. Will he pay? said that spruce scribe, gathering up his desk and pens and sealing wax all in order. I do not know. He is not like other boys. Go and see. It is well worth. Kim danced with impatience when the slim, young, caheth-hove in sight. As soon as his voice could carry, he cursed him volubly. First, I will take my pay, the letter-writer said. Bad words have made the price higher. But who art thou dressed in that fashion to speak in this fashion? Aha! that is in the letter which thou shalt write. Never was such a tale. But I am in no haste. Another writer will serve me. Ambala city is full of them as is Lahore. Four honours, said the writer, sitting down and spreading his cloth in the shade of a deserted barrack-wing. Mechanically Kim squatted beside him, squatted, as only the natives can, in spite of the abominable clinging trousers. The writer regarded him sideways. That is the price to ask of sabes, said Kim. Now fix me a true one. An ana and a half. How do I know, having written the letter, that thou wilt not run away? I must not go beyond this tree, and there is also the stamp to be considered. I get no commission on the price of the stamp, once more. What manner of white-boy art thou? That shall be said in the letter, which is to Mahbub Ali, the horse-dealer, in the Kashmir Sarayat Lahore. He is my friend. Wonder on wonder! murmured the letter-writer, dipping a reed in the ink-stand. To be written in Hindi? Assuredly. To Mahbub Ali, then. Begin. I have come down with the old man as far as Ombala in the train. At Ombala I carried the news of the bay-mayor's pedigree. After what he had seen in the garden, he was not going to write of white stallions. Slower a little. What has a bay-mayor to do? Is it Mahbub Ali the great-dealer? Who else? I have been in his service. Take more ink. Again. As the order was, so I did it. We then went on foot to Benares, but on the third day we found a certain regiment. Is that down? I, Pulton, murmured the writer, all is. I went into their camp and was caught. And by means of the charm about my neck, which thou knowest, it was established that I was the son of some man in the regiment. According to the prophecy of the red bull, which thou knowest, was common talk of Abhazar. Kim waited for this shaft to sink into the letter-writer's heart. Cleared his throat and continued. A priest clothed me and gave me a new name. One priest, however, was a fool. The clothes are very heavy, but I am a saib, and my heart is heavy too. They send me to a school and beat me. I do not like the air and water here. Come then and help me, Mahbub Ali, or send me some money, for I have not sufficient to pay the writer who writes this. Who writes this? It is my own fault that I was tricked. Thou art as clever as Hassan's box that forged the treasury stamps at Nakhlau. But what a tale! What a tale! Is it true by any chance? It does not profit to tell lies to Mahbub Ali. It is better to help his friends by lending them a stamp. When the money comes, I will repay. The writer grunted doubtfully, but took a stamp out of his desk, sealed the letter, handed it over to Kim, and departed. Mahbub Ali's was a name of power in Umballa. That is the way to win good account with the gods, Kim shouted after him. Pay me twice over when the money comes, the man cried over his shoulder. What was you bucking to that nigger about? said the drummer boy when Kim returned to the veranda. I was watching you. I was only talking to him. You talk the same as a nigger, don't you? No, I only speak a little. What shall we do now? The bugles will go for dinner in half a minute. My God! I wish I had gone up to the front with the regiment. It's lawful doing nothing but school down here. Don't you hate it? Oh yes! I'd run a wire find you where to go, but as the man say, in this blooming inja, you're only a prisoner at large. You can't desert without being took back at once. I'm fair sick of it. But have you been in England? Why, I only come out last troop in season with my mother. I should think I have been in England. Why, ignore a little beggar you are. You was brought up in the gutter, wasn't you? Oh yes! Tell me something about England. My father, he came from there. Though he would not say so, Kim, of course, disbelieved every word the drummer boy spoke about the Liverpool suburb, which was his England. It passed the heavy time till dinner. A most unappetizing meal served to the boys and a few invalids in a corner of a barrack room. But that he had written to Mabub Ali, Kim would have been almost depressed. The indifference of native crowds he was used to, but this strong loneliness among white men, prayed on him. He was grateful when, in the course of the afternoon, a big soldier took him over to Father Victor, who lived in another wing across another dusty parade-ground. The priest was reading an English letter written in purple ink. He looked at Kim more curiously than ever. And how do you like it, my son, as far as you've gone? Not much, eh? It must be hard, very hard on a wild animal. Listen now, I've had an amazing epistle from your friend. Where is he? Is he well? If he knows to write me letters, it is all right. You're fond of him, then. Of course I am fond of him. He was fond of me. It seems so by the look of this. He can't write English, can he? No, I—oh, I know. Not that I know, but of course he found a letter-writer who can write English very well. So he wrote. I do hope you understand. That accounts for it. Do you know anything about his money affairs? Kim's face showed that he did not. How can I tell? That's what I'm asking. Now listen, if he can make head or tail at this, we'll skip the first part. It's written from Jagadheer Road. Sitting on wayside, in grave meditation, trusting to be favoured with your honour's applause of present step, which recommend your honour to execute for Almighty God's sake. Education is greatest blessing, if of best sorts, otherwise no earthly good. Faith the old man's hit the bull's-eye that time. If your honour, condescending, giving my boy best education, saviour— I suppose that's Saint Saviour's impatibus—in terms of our conversation, dated in your tenth, fifteenth instant, a business-like touch there. Then, Almighty God, blessing your honour's succeeding to third and fourth generations, and, listen now, confide in your honour's humble servant for adequate remuneration per hoondi, per annum, three hundred rupees a year to one expensive education Saint Saviour. Luck now, and allow small time to forward same per hoondi sent to any part of India as your honour shall address yourself. This servant of your honour has presently no place to lay crown of his head, but going to Benares by train on account of persecution of old woman talking so much and unanxious residing Saharanpur in any domestic capacity. Now, what in the world does that mean? She has asked him to be her puro, her clergyman at Saranpur, I think. He would not do that on account of his river. She did talk. It's clear to you, is it? It beats me altogether. So, going to Benares, where we'll find address and forward rupees for boy who is apple of eye and for Almighty God's sake execute this education and your petitioner, as in duty bound shall ever awfully pray. Written by Sobrao Saiti, failed entrance alabad university, for venerable Tishulama, the priest of Suchsen, looking for a river, address care of Tirthankas temple Benares. P.M., please note, boy is apple of eye and rupees shall be sent per hoondi three hundred per annum, for God Almighty's sake. Now, is that raven lunacy or a business proposition? I ask you, because I'm fairly at my wit's end. He says he will give me three hundred rupees a year, so he will give them. Oh, that's the way you look at it, is it? Of course, if he says so. The priest whistled. Then he addresses Kim as an equal. I don't believe it, but we'll see. You were going off to-day to the military orphanage at Sanawa, where the regiment will keep you till you were old enough to enlist. You'd be brought up to the Church of England. Bennett arranged for that. On the other hand, if you go to St Xavier's, you'll get a better education and can have the religion. Do you see my dilemma? Kim saw nothing save a vision of the lama going south in a train, with none to beg for him. Like most people, I'm going to Temporoi's. If your friend sends the money from Benares, powers of darkness below, where's a street beggar to raise three hundred rupees? You'll go down to Lucknow, and I'll pay you fare, because I can't touch the subscription money if I intend, as I do, to make you a Catholic. If he doesn't, you'll go to the military orphanage at the regiment's expense. I'll allow him three days' grace. Though I don't believe in it at all. Even then, if he fails in his payments later on, but it's beyond me, we can only walk one step at a time in this world. Praise God! And they sent Bennett to the front and left me behind. Bennett can't expect everything. Oh, yes, said Kim vaguely. The priest leaned forward. I'd give a month's pay to find out what's going on in that little roundhead of yours. There is nothing, said Kim, and scratched it. He was wondering whether Mahbub Ali would send him as much as a whole rupee. Then he could pay the letter-writer and write letters to the lama at Benares. Perhaps Mahbub Ali would visit him next time he came south with horses. Surely he must know that Kim's delivery of the letter to the officer at Umballa had caused the great war which the men and the boys had discussed so loudly over the barrack dinner tables. But if Mahbub Ali did not know this, it would be very unsafe to tell him so. Mahbub Ali was hard upon boys who knew or thought they knew too much. Well, till I get further news, Father Victor's voice interrupted the reverie. You can run along now and play with the other boys. They'll teach you something, but I don't think you'll like it. The day dragged to its weary end. When he wished to sleep, he was instructed how to fold up his clothes and set out his boots. The other boys deriding. Bugles waked him in the dawn. The schoolmaster caught him after breakfast, thrust a page of meaningless characters under his nose, gave them senseless names, and whacked him without reason. Kim meditated poisoning him with opium borrowed from a barrack sweeper, but reflected that, as they all ate at one table in public, this was particularly revolting to Kim, who preferred to turn his back on the world at meals, the stroke might be dangerous. Then he attempted to run off to the village where the priest had tried to drug the lama, the village where the old soldier lived. But far-seeing centuries at every exit headed back the little scarlet figure. Trousers and jacket crippled body and mind alike, so he abandoned the project and fell back, oriental fashion, on time, and chance. Three days of torment passed in the big, echoing white rooms. He walked out of afternoons under escort of the drummer boy, and all he heard from his companion were the few useless words, which seemed to make two-thirds of the white man's abuse. Kim knew and despised them all long ago. The boy resented his silence and lack of interest by beating him, as was only lateral. He did not care for any of the bazaars that were in bounds. He styled all natives' niggers, yet servants and sweepers called him abominable names to his face, and, misled by their deferential attitude, he never understood. This somewhat consoled Kim for the beatings. On the morning of the fourth day a judgment overtook that drummer. They had gone out together towards Umballa Racecourse. He returned alone, weeping, with news that Young Ohara, to whom he had been doing nothing in particular, had hailed a scarlet-bearded nigger on horseback, that the nigger had then and there laid into him with a peculiarly adhesive quote, picked up Young Ohara, and borne him off at full gallop. These tidings came to Father Victor, and he drew down his long upper lip. He was already sufficiently startled by a letter from the Temple of the Thurkantars at Benares, enclosing a native banker's note of hand for three hundred rupees, and an amazing prayer to Almighty God. The lama would have been more annoyed than the priest, had he known how the bizarre letter-writer had translated his phrase to a choir merit. "'Pairs of darkness below,' Father Victor fumbled with the note, and now he's off with another of his peep-a-day friends. I don't know whether it would be a greater relief to me to get him back or to have him lost. He's beyond my comprehension. Here, the devil! Yes, he's the man, I mean. Can a street beggar raise the money to educate white boys?' Three miles off at Ambala race-course, Mahbub Ali, reigning a great Kabooly stallion with Kim in front of him, was saying, "'Bard little friend of all the world! There is my honour and reputation to be considered. All the officer saves in all the regiments, and all Ambala know, Mahbub Ali? Men saw me pick thee up and chastise that boy. We are seen now from far across the plain. How can I take thee away or account for thy disappearing, if I set thee down and let thee run off into the crops? They would put me in jail. Be patient. Once a saib, always a saib. When thou art a man, who knows, thou wilt be grateful to Mahbub Ali. Take me beyond their centuries, where I can change this red. Give me money, and I will go to Benares and be with my lama again. I do not want to be a saib. And remember, I did deliver that message." The stallion bounded wildly. Mahbub Ali had unconsciously driven home the sharp-edged syrup. He was not the new sort of fluent horse-dealer who wears English boots and spurs. Kim drew his own conclusions from that betrayal. That was a small matter. It lay on the straight road to Benares. I and the saib have by this time forgotten it. I send so many letters and messages to men who ask questions about horses. I cannot well remember one from the other. Was it some matter of a bay-mayor that Peter's saib wished the pedigree of? Kim saw the trap at once. If he had said bay-mayor, Mahbub would have known by his very readiness to fall in with the amendment that the boy suspected something. Kim replied, therefore, Bay-mayor, no. I do not forget my messages thus. It was a white stallion. Ah, so it was. A white Arab stallion. But thou distright Bay-mayor to me. Who cares to tell the truth to a letter-writer? Kim answered, feeling Mahbub's palm on his heart. Hi! Mahbub, you old villain, pull up! cried a voice. And an Englishman raced alongside on a little polo-pony. I've been chasing you half over the country. That kabooly of yours can go. For sale, I suppose. I have some young stuff coming on made by heaven for the delicate and difficult polo game. He has no equal. He plays polo and waits at table, yes. We know all that. What the juice have you got there? A boy, said Mahbub gravely. He was being beaten by another boy. His father was once a white soldier in the big war. The boy was a child in Lahore City. He played with my horses when he was a babe. Now I think they will make him a soldier. He has been newly caught by his father's regiment that went up to the war last week. But I do not think he wants to be a soldier. I take him for a ride. Tell me where thy barracks are, and I will set thee there. Let me go. I can find the barracks alone. And if thou runnest the way, who will say it is not my fault? He'll run back to his dinner. Where's he to run to? The Englishman asked. He was bored in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses. He is Chabuk Sawai, a sharp chap. It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindu boy. The deuce he would, the Englishman looked critically at the boy as Mahbub headed toward the barracks. Kim ground his teeth. Mahbub was mocking him, as faithless Afghans will, for he went on. They will send him to a school and put heavy boots on his feet, and swaddle him in these clothes. Then he will forget all he knows. Now which of the barracks is thine? Kim pointed, he could not speak, to Father Victor's wing, all staring white nearby. Perhaps he will make a good soldier, said Mahbub reflexively. He will make a good orderly at least. I sent him to deliver a message once from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a white stallion. Here was deadly insult on deadlier injury, and the Sahib to whom he had so craftily given that war-waking letter heard it all. Kim beheld Mahbub Ali, frying in flame for his treachery, but for himself he saw one long grey vista of barracks, schools, and barracks again. He gazed imploringly at the clear-cut face, in which there was no glimmer of recognition. But even at this extremity it never occurred to him to throw himself on the white man's mercy, or to denounce the Afghan. And Mahbub stared deliberately at the Englishman, who stared as deliberately at Kim, quivering and tongue-tied. My horse is well-trained, said the dealer. Others would have kicked, Sahib. Ah, said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony's damp withers with his whip-butt. Who makes the boy a soldier? She says the regiment that found him, and especially the Padre Sahib of the regiment. There is the Padre. Kim choked, says bare-headed father Victor, sailed down upon them from the veranda. Pair is the darkest below, O'Hara. How many more mixed friends do you keep in Asia? He cried as Kim slid down, and stood helplessly before him. Good morning, Padre! the Englishman said cheerily. I know you by reputation well enough. Meant to have come over and called before this? I'm Crichton. Of the ethnological survey! said father Victor. The Englishman nodded. Faith, I'm glad to meet you, then, and I owe you thanks for bringing back the boy. No thanks to me, Padre. Besides, the boy wasn't going away. Don't you know of Mahbub Ali? The horse dealer sat impassive in the sunlight. You will when you've been in the station a month. He sells us all our crocs. That boy is rather a curiosity. Can you tell me anything about him? Can I tell you? Puffed father Victor. You'll be the one man that could help me in my quandaries. Tell you, powers of darkness. I am bursting to tell someone who knows something of the native. A groom came round the corner. Colonel Crichton raised his voice, speaking in Urdu. Very good, Mahbub Ali. But what is the use of telling me all these stories about the pony? Not one pie more than three hundred and fifty rupees will I give. The Sahib is a little hot and angry after riding. The horse dealer returned with a leer of a privileged jester. Presently he will see my horse's points more clearly. I will wait till he has finished his talk with the Padre. I will wait under that tree. Good foundre! The Colonel laughed. That comes of looking at one of Mahbub's horses. He's a regular old leech, Padre. Wait, then. If thou hast so much time to spare Mahbub, now. Am at your service, Padre. Where is the boy? And he's gone off to collogue with Mahbub, queer sort of boy. Might I ask you to send my mare over under cover? He dropped into a chair which commanded a clear view of Kim and Mahbub Ali in conference beneath the tree. The Padre went indoors for sheroots. Crichton hurt Kim, say bitterly. Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot, and a harlot before a Pathan, Mahbub Ali. That is all one. The great red beard wagged solemnly. Children should not see a carpet on the loom till the pattern is made plain. Believe me, friend of all the world, I do thee great service. They will not make a soldier of thee. You crafty old sinner, thought Crichton. But you're not far wrong. That boy mustn't be wasted, if he is as advertised. Excuse me half a minute, cried the Padre from within, but I'm getting the documents in the case. If through me the favour of this bold and wise Colonel Saib comes to thee, and thou art raised in honour, what thanks will thou give Mahbub Ali when thou art a man? Nay, nay, I beg thee to let me take the road again, where I should have been safe, and thou hast sold me back to the English. What will they give thee for blood money? A cheerful young demon, the Colonel bit his cigar, and turned politely to Father Victor. What are the letters that the fat priest is waving before the Colonel? Stand behind the stallion, as though looking at my bridle, said Mahbub Ali. A letter from my lama, which he wrote from Jahagir Road, saying that he will pay three hundred rupees by the year for my schooling. Oh, is that old red-heart of that sort? At which school? God knows. I think in Nakhlau. Yes, there is a big school there for the Sons of Saibs and Half-Saibs. I've seen it when I sell horses there, so the lama also loved the friend of all the world. I, and he, did not tell lies or return me to captivity. Small wonder the Padre does not know how to unravel the thread. How fast he talks to the Colonel Saib! Mahbub Ali chuckled. Bye, Allah! The keen eyes swept the veranda for an instant. Thy lama has sent what to me looks like a note of hand. I have had some few dealings in hoondis. The Colonel Saib is looking at it. What good is all this to me? said Kim, wearily. That will go away, and they will return me to those empty rooms, where there is no good place to sleep, and where the boys beat me. I do not think that have patience, child. All Pathans are not faithless, except in horse-flesh. Five, ten, fifteen minutes past. Father Victor, talking energetically or asking questions, which the Colonel answered. Now I've told you every tender day know about the boy from beginning to end, and it's a blessed relief to me. Did you ever hear the loik? At any rate, the old man has sent the money. Go-bin, sighs, notes of hand are good from here to China, said the Colonel. The more one knows about natives, the less one can say what they will or won't do. That's consoling, from the head of the Ethnological Survey. It's this mixture of red bulls and rivers of healing. Poor heathen, God help him. And notes of hand and Masonic certificates. Are you a Mason by any chance? I drove. I am. Now I come to think of it. That's an additional reason, said the Colonel, absently. I'm glad you see a reason in it. But, as I said, it's the mixture of things that's beyond me. And his prophesy into our Colonel, sitting on my bed, with his little shimmy torn open showing his white skin, and the prophesy common true. That'll cure all that nonsense at St. Xavier's, eh? Sprinkle him with holy water, the Colonel laughed. And my word, I fancy I ought to sometimes, but I am hoping he'd be brought up as a good Catholic. All that troubles me is what'll happen if the old beggar man— Lama, Lama, my dear sir, and some of them are gentlemen in their own country. The Lama, then, fails to pay next year. He's a fine business head to plan at the spur of the moment, but he's bound to do it one day, and taken a heathen's money to give a child a Christian education. But he said explicitly what he wanted. As soon as he knew the boy was white, he seems to have made his arrangements accordingly. I'd give a month's pay to hear how he explained it all, at the Tia Thancar's Temple at Benares. Look here, Padre. I don't pretend to know much about natives. But if he says he'll pay, he'll pay, dead or alive. I mean, his heirs will assume the debt. My advice to you is, send the boy down to Lucknow. If your Anglican chaplain thinks you've stolen a march on him, bad luck to Bennett. He was sent to the front instead of me. Dirty certify me medical unfit, or excommunicate dirty, if he comes back alive. Surely Bennett ought to be content with glory, leaving you the religion, quite so. As a matter of fact, I don't think Bennett will mind. Put the blame on me. I am strongly recommended sending the boy to Saint Xavier's. He can go down on a pass as a soldier's orphan, so the railway fare will be saved. You can buy him an outfit from the regimental subscription. The lodge will be saved the expense of his education, and that will put the lodge in a good temper. It's perfectly easy. I've got to go down to Lucknow next week. I'll look after the boy on the way, give him in charge of my servants, and so on. You're a good man. Not in the least. Don't make that mistake. The lama has sent us money for a definite end. We can't very well return it. We shall have to do what he says. Well, that's settled, isn't it? Shall we say that Tuesday next you'll hand him over to me at the night train south. It's only three days. He can't do much harm in three days. It's a weight of my mind. But this thing here, he waived the note of hand. I don't know, go bin sahay, or his bank, which may be a hole in the wall. You've never been a subbleton in debt. I'll cash it, if you like, and send you the vouchers in proper order. But with all your own work, too, it's asking. It's not the least trouble indeed. You see, as an ethnologist, the thing's very interesting to me. I'd like to make a note of it for some government work that I'm doing. The transformation of a regimental badge, like your red bull, into a sort of fetish that the boy follows is very interesting. But I can't thank you enough. There's one thing you can do. All we ethnological men are jealous as jackdaws of one another's discoveries. They have no interest at any one but ourselves, of course. But you know what book collectors are like. Well, don't say a word directly or indirectly about the Asiatic side of the boy's character, his adventures and his prophecy, and so on. I'll worm them out of the boy later on. And you see, I do. You'll make a wonderful account of it. Never a word will I say to anyone till I see it in print. Thank you. That goes straight to an ethnologist's heart. Well, I must be getting back to my breakfast. Good heavens! Oh, Mahbub here still! He raised his voice, and the horse-dealer came out from under the shadow of the tree. Well, what is it? As regards that young horse, said Mahbub, I say that when a colt is born to be a polo pony, closely following the ball without teaching, when such a colt knows the game by divination, then I say it is a great wrong to break that colt to a heavy cart, Saib. So say I also, Mahbub. The colt will be entered for polo only. These fellows think of nothing in the world but horses, Padre. I'll see you tomorrow, Mahbub, if you've anything likely for sale. The dealer saluted horseman fashion with a sweep of the off-hand. Be patient a little, friend of all the world. He was spent to the agonized kin. Thy fortune is made. In a little while though ghost to knucklow. And here is something to pay the letter-writer. I shall see thee again, I think, many times. And he canted off down the road. Listen to me, said the colonel from the veranda speaking in the vernacular. In three days thou wilt go with me to Lucknow, seeing and hearing new things all the while. Therefore sit still for three days and do not run away. Thou wilt go to school in Lucknow. Shall I meet my holy one there, Kim Wimpered? At least Lucknow is nearer to Benares than Umballa. It may be thou wilt go under my protection. Marbu Ali knows this, and he will be angry if thou returnest to the road now. Remember, much has been told me which I do not forget. I will wait, said Kim. But the boys will beat me, then the bugles blew for dinner.