Kim

every time he mentioned the Colonel's name, if the Colonel had been a

fool. Consequently--and this set Kim to skipping--there was a mystery

somewhere, and Mahbub Ali probably spied for the Colonel much as Kim

had spied for Mahbub. And, like the horse-dealer, the Colonel

evidently respected people who did not show themselves to be too clever.

He rejoiced that he had not betrayed his knowledge of the Colonel's

house; and when, on his return to barracks, he discovered that no

cheroot-case had been left behind, he beamed with delight. Here was a

man after his own heart--a tortuous and indirect person playing a

hidden game. Well, if he could be a fool, so could Kim.

He showed nothing of his mind when Father Victor, for three long

mornings, discoursed to him of an entirely new set of Gods and

Godlings--notably of a Goddess called Mary, who, he gathered, was one

with Bibi Miriam of Mahbub Ali's theology. He betrayed no emotion

when, after the lecture, Father Victor dragged him from shop to shop

buying articles of outfit, nor when envious drummer-boys kicked him

because he was going to a superior school did he complain, but awaited

the play of circumstances with an interested soul. Father Victor, good

man, took him to the station, put him into an empty second-class next

to Colonel Creighton's first, and bade him farewell with genuine

feeling.

'They'll make a man o' you, O'Hara, at St Xavier's--a white man, an', I

hope, a good man. They know all about your comin', an' the Colonel

will see that ye're not lost or mislaid anywhere on the road. I've

given you a notion of religious matters,--at least I hope so,--and

you'll remember, when they ask you your religion, that you're a

Cath'lic. Better say Roman Cath'lic, tho' I'm not fond of the word.'

Kim lit a rank cigarette--he had been careful to buy a stock in the

bazar--and lay down to think. This solitary passage was very different

from that joyful down-journey in the third-class with the lama.

'Sahibs get little pleasure of travel,' he reflected.

'Hai mai! I go from one place to another as it might be a kickball. It

is my Kismet. No man can escape his Kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi

Miriam, and I am a Sahib.' He looked at his boots ruefully. 'No; I am

Kim. This is the great world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?' He

considered his own identity, a thing he had never done before, till his

head swam. He was one insignificant person in all this roaring whirl

of India, going southward to he knew not what fate.

Presently the Colonel sent for him, and talked for a long time. So far

as Kim could gather, he was to be diligent and enter the Survey of

India as a chain-man. If he were very good, and passed the proper

examinations, he would be earning thirty rupees a month at seventeen

years old, and Colonel Creighton would see that he found suitable

employment.

Kim pretended at first to understand perhaps one word in three of this

talk. Then the Colonel, seeing his mistake, turned to fluent and

picturesque Urdu and Kim was contented. No man could be a fool who

knew the language so intimately, who moved so gently and silently, and

whose eyes were so different from the dull fat eyes of other Sahibs.

'Yes, and thou must learn how to make pictures of roads and mountains

and rivers, to carry these pictures in thine eye till a suitable time

comes to set them upon paper. Perhaps some day, when thou art a

chain-man, I may say to thee when we are working together: "Go across

those hills and see what lies beyond." Then one will say: "There are

bad people living in those hills who will slay the chain-man if he be

seen to look like a Sahib." What then?'

Kim thought. Would it be safe to return the Colonel's lead?

'I would tell what that other man had said.'

'But if I answered: "I will give thee a hundred rupees for knowledge

of what is behind those hills--for a picture of a river and a little

news of what the people say in the villages there"?'

'How can I tell? I am only a boy. Wait till I am a man.' Then,

seeing the Colonel's brow clouded, he went on: 'But I think I should

in a few days earn the hundred rupees.'

'By what road?'

Kim shook his head resolutely. 'If I said how I would earn them,

another man might hear and forestall me. It is not good to sell

knowledge for nothing.'

'Tell now.' The Colonel held up a rupee. Kim's hand half reached

towards it, and dropped.

'Nay, Sahib; nay. I know the price that will be paid for the answer,

but I do not know why the question is asked.'

'Take it for a gift, then,' said Creighton, tossing it over. 'There is

a good spirit in thee. Do not let it be blunted at St Xavier's. There

are many boys there who despise the black men.'

'Their mothers were bazar-women,' said Kim. He knew well there is no

hatred like that of the half-caste for his brother-in-law.

'True; but thou art a Sahib and the son of a Sahib. Therefore, do not

at any time be led to contemn the black men. I have known boys newly

entered into the service of the Government who feigned not to

understand the talk or the customs of black men. Their pay was cut for

ignorance. There is no sin so great as ignorance. Remember this.'

Several times in the course of the long twenty-four hours' run south

did the Colonel send for Kim, always developing this latter text.

'We be all on one lead-rope, then,' said Kim at last, 'the Colonel,

Mahbub Ali, and I--when I become a chain-man. He will use me as Mahbub

Ali employed me, I think. That is good, if it allows me to return to

the Road again. This clothing grows no easier by wear.'

When they came to the crowded Lucknow station there was no sign of the

lama. He swallowed his disappointment, while the Colonel bundled him

into a ticca-gharri with his neat belongings and despatched him alone

to St Xavier's.

'I do not say farewell, because we shall meet again,' he cried. 'Again,

and many times, if thou art one of good spirit. But thou art not yet

tried.'

'Not when I brought thee'--Kim actually dared to use the turn of

equals--'a white stallion's pedigree that night?'

'Much is gained by forgetting, little brother,' said the Colonel, with

a look that pierced through Kim's shoulder-blades as he scuttled into

the carriage.

It took him nearly five minutes to recover. Then he sniffed the new

air appreciatively. 'A rich city,' he said. 'Richer than Lahore. How

good the bazars must be! Coachman, drive me a little through the

bazars here.'

'My order is to take thee to the school.' The driver used the 'thou',

which is rudeness when applied to a white man. In the clearest and

most fluent vernacular Kim pointed out his error, climbed on to the

box-seat, and, perfect understanding established, drove for a couple of

hours up and down, estimating, comparing, and enjoying. There is no

city--except Bombay, the queen of all--more beautiful in her garish

style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river,

or from the top of the Imambara looking down on the gilt umbrellas of

the Chutter Munzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings

have adorned her with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities,

crammed her with pensioners, and drenched her with blood. She is the

centre of all idleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the

claim to talk the only pure Urdu.

'A fair city--a beautiful city.' The driver, as a Lucknow man, was

pleased with the compliment, and told Kim many astounding things where