Kim

echoing darkness, the glimmer of rails between the masonry platforms,

and the maze of girders above. He stood in a gigantic stone hall

paved, it seemed, with the sheeted dead third-class passengers who had

taken their tickets overnight and were sleeping in the waiting-rooms.

All hours of the twenty-four are alike to Orientals, and their

passenger traffic is regulated accordingly.

'This is where the fire-carriages come. One stands behind that

hole'--Kim pointed to the ticket-office--'who will give thee a paper to

take thee to Umballa.'

'But we go to Benares,' he replied petulantly.

'All one. Benares then. Quick: she comes!'

'Take thou the purse.'

The lama, not so well used to trains as he had pretended, started as

the 3.25 a.m. south-bound roared in. The sleepers sprang to life, and

the station filled with clamour and shoutings, cries of water and

sweetmeat vendors, shouts of native policemen, and shrill yells of

women gathering up their baskets, their families, and their husbands.

'It is the train--only the te-rain. It will not come here. Wait!'

Amazed at the lama's immense simplicity (he had handed him a small bag

full of rupees), Kim asked and paid for a ticket to Umballa. A sleepy

clerk grunted and flung out a ticket to the next station, just six

miles distant.

'Nay,' said Kim, scanning it with a grin. 'This may serve for farmers,

but I live in the city of Lahore. It was cleverly done, Babu. Now

give the ticket to Umballa.'

The Babu scowled and dealt the proper ticket.

'Now another to Amritzar,' said Kim, who had no notion of spending

Mahbub Ali's money on anything so crude as a paid ride to Umballa.

'The price is so much. The small money in return is just so much. I

know the ways of the te-rain ... Never did yogi need chela as thou

dost,' he went on merrily to the bewildered lama. 'They would have

flung thee out at Mian Mir but for me. This way! Come!' He returned

the money, keeping only one anna in each rupee of the price of the

Umballa ticket as his commission--the immemorial commission of Asia.

The lama jibbed at the open door of a crowded third-class carriage.

'Were it not better to walk?' said he weakly.

A burly Sikh artisan thrust forth his bearded head. 'Is he afraid? Do

not be afraid. I remember the time when I was afraid of the te-rain.

Enter! This thing is the work of the Government.'

'I do not fear,' said the lama. 'Have ye room within for two?'

'There is no room even for a mouse,' shrilled the wife of a well-to-do

cultivator--a Hindu Jat from the rich Jullundur, district. Our night

trains are not as well looked after as the day ones, where the sexes

are very strictly kept to separate carriages.

'Oh, mother of my son, we can make space,' said the blueturbaned

husband. 'Pick up the child. It is a holy man, see'st thou?'

'And my lap full of seventy times seven bundles! Why not bid him sit

on my knee, Shameless? But men are ever thus!' She looked round for

approval. An Amritzar courtesan near the window sniffed behind her

head drapery.

'Enter! Enter!' cried a fat Hindu money-lender, his folded

account-book in a cloth under his arm. With an oily smirk: 'It is

well to be kind to the poor.'

'Ay, at seven per cent a month with a mortgage on the unborn calf,'

said a young Dogra soldier going south on leave; and they all laughed.

'Will it travel to Benares?' said the lama.

'Assuredly. Else why should we come? Enter, or we are left,' cried

Kim.

'See!' shrilled the Amritzar girl. 'He has never entered a train. Oh,

see!'

'Nay, help,' said the cultivator, putting out a large brown hand and

hauling him in. 'Thus is it done, father.'

'But--but--I sit on the floor. It is against the Rule to sit on a

bench,' said the lama. 'Moreover, it cramps me.'

'I say,' began the money-lender, pursing his lips, 'that there is not

one rule of right living which these te-rains do not cause us to break.

We sit, for example, side by side with all castes and peoples.'

'Yea, and with most outrageously shameless ones,' said the wife,

scowling at the Amritzar girl making eyes at the young sepoy.

'I said we might have gone by cart along the road,' said the husband,

'and thus have saved some money.'

'Yes--and spent twice over what we saved on food by the way. That was

talked out ten thousand times.'

'Ay, by ten thousand tongues,' grunted he.

'The Gods help us poor women if we may not speak. Oho! He is of that

sort which may not look at or reply to a woman.' For the lama,

constrained by his Rule, took not the faintest notice of her. 'And his

disciple is like him?'

'Nay, mother,' said Kim most promptly. 'Not when the woman is

well-looking and above all charitable to the hungry.'

'A beggar's answer,' said the Sikh, laughing. 'Thou hast brought it on

thyself, sister!' Kim's hands were crooked in supplication.

'And whither goest thou?' said the woman, handing him the half of a

cake from a greasy package.

'Even to Benares.'

'Jugglers belike?' the young soldier suggested. 'Have ye any tricks

to pass the time? Why does not that yellow man answer?'

'Because,' said Kim stoutly, 'he is holy, and thinks upon matters

hidden from thee.'

'That may be well. We of the Ludhiana Sikhs'--he rolled it out

sonorously--'do not trouble our heads with doctrine. We fight.'

'My sister's brother's son is naik [corporal] in that regiment,' said

the Sikh craftsman quietly. 'There are also some Dogra companies

there.' The soldier glared, for a Dogra is of other caste than a Sikh,

and the banker tittered.

'They are all one to me,' said the Amritzar girl.

'That we believe,' snorted the cultivator's wife malignantly.

'Nay, but all who serve the Sirkar with weapons in their hands are, as

it were, one brotherhood. There is one brotherhood of the caste, but

beyond that again'--she looked round timidly--'the bond of the

Pulton--the Regiment--eh?'

'My brother is in a Jat regiment,' said the cultivator. 'Dogras be

good men.'

'Thy Sikhs at least were of that opinion,' said the soldier, with a

scowl at the placid old man in the corner. 'Thy Sikhs thought so when

our two companies came to help them at the Pirzai Kotal in the face of

eight Afridi standards on the ridge not three months gone.'

He told the story of a Border action in which the Dogra companies of

the Ludhiana Sikhs had acquitted themselves well. The Amritzar girl

smiled; for she knew the talk was to win her approval.

'Alas!' said the cultivator's wife at the end. 'So their villages

were burnt and their little children made homeless?'

'They had marked our dead. They paid a great payment after we of the

Sikhs had schooled them. So it was. Is this Amritzar?'

'Ay, and here they cut our tickets,' said the banker, fumbling at his

belt.

The lamps were paling in the dawn when the half-caste guard came round.

Ticket-collecting is a slow business in the East, where people secrete

their tickets in all sorts of curious places. Kim produced his and was

told to get out.

'But I go to Umballa,' he protested. 'I go with this holy man.'

'Thou canst go to Jehannum for aught I care. This ticket is only--'

Kim burst into a flood of tears, protesting that the lama was his

father and his mother, that he was the prop of the lama's declining

years, and that the lama would die without his care. All the carriage

bade the guard be merciful--the banker was specially eloquent here--but