Kim

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 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. 'Ye can run along now and play with the other boys. They'll

teach ye something--but I don't think ye'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

peculiarly revolting to Kim, who preferred to turn his back on the

world at meals), the stroke might be dangerous. Then he attempted

running off to the village where the priest had tried to drug the

lama--the village where the old soldier lived. But far-seeing sentries

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 companions

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

natural. He did not care for any of the bazars which 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 judgement overtook that drummer.

They had gone out together towards Umballa racecourse. He returned

alone, weeping, with news that young O'Hara, 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 quirt, picked up young O'Hara, 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 Tirthankars 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 bazar letter-writer had translated his phrase 'to

acquire merit.'

'Powers of Darkness below!' Father Victor fumbled with the note. 'An'

now he's off with another of his peep-o'-day friends. I don't know

whether it will be a greater relief to me to get him back or to have

him lost. He's beyond my comprehension. How the Divil--yes, he's the

man I mean--can a street-beggar raise money to educate white boys?'

Three miles off, on Umballa racecourse, Mahbub Ali, reining a grey

Kabuli stallion with Kim in front of him, was saying:

'But, Little Friend of all the World, there is my honour and reputation

to be considered. All the officer-Sahibs in all the regiments, and all

Umballa, know Mahbub Ali. Men saw me pick thee up and chastise that

boy. We are seen now from far across this 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 Sahib, always a Sahib. When thou art a man--who knows?--thou wilt be

grateful to Mahbub Ali.'

'Take me beyond their sentries 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 Sahib, and remember I did deliver that message.'

The stallion bounded wildly. Mahbub Ali had incautiously driven home

the sharp-edged stirrup. (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 Sahib 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 mare that

Peters Sahib wished the pedigree of?'

Kim saw the trap at once. If he had said 'bay mare' Mahbub would have

known by his very readiness to fall in with the amendment that the boy

suspected something. Kim replied therefore:

'Bay mare. No. I do not forget my messages thus. It was a white

stallion.'

'Ay, so it was. A white Arab stallion. But thou didst write "bay

mare" to me.'

'Who cares to tell 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 Kabuli 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

deuce 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 away who will say it is not my fault?'

'He'll run back to his dinner. Where has he to run to?' the

Englishman asked.

'He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses.

He is a 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 towards 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 near by.

'Perhaps he will make a good soldier,' said Mahbub reflectively.

'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