الفصل الفصل 7 · Chapter VII

. Chapter VII

Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised

With idiot moons and stars retracing stars?

Creep thou betweene—thy coming’s all unnoised.

Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.

Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fraye

(By Adam’s, fathers’, own, sin bound alway);

Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say

Which planet mends thy threadbare fate or mars!

Sir John Christie.

In the afternoon the red-faced schoolmaster told Kim that he had been

“struck off the strength”, which conveyed no meaning to him till he was

ordered to go away and play. Then he ran to the bazar, and found the

young letter-writer to whom he owed a stamp.

“Now I pay,” said Kim royally, “and now I need another letter to be

written.”

“Mahbub Ali is in Umballa,” said the writer jauntily. He was, by virtue

of his office, a bureau of general misinformation.

“This is not to Mahbub, but to a priest. Take thy pen and write

quickly. _To Teshoo Lama, the Holy One from Bhotiyal seeking for a

River, who is now in the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares._ Take

more ink! _In three days I am to go down to Nucklao to the school at

Nucklao. The name of the school is Xavier. I do not know where that

school is, but it is at Nucklao._”

“But I know Nucklao,” the writer interrupted. “I know the school.”

“Tell him where it is, and I give half an anna.”

The reed pen scratched busily. “He cannot mistake.” The man lifted his

head. “Who watches us across the street?”

Kim looked up hurriedly and saw Colonel Creighton in tennis-flannels.

“Oh, that is some Sahib who knows the fat priest in the barracks. He is

beckoning me.”

“What dost thou?” said the Colonel, when Kim trotted up.

“I—I am not running away. I send a letter to my Holy One at Benares.”

“I had not thought of that. Hast thou said that I take thee to

Lucknow?”

“Nay, I have not. Read the letter, if there be a doubt.”

“Then why hast thou left out my name in writing to that Holy One?” The

Colonel smiled a queer smile. Kim took his courage in both hands.

“It was said once to me that it is inexpedient to write the names of

strangers concerned in any matter, because by the naming of names many

good plans are brought to confusion.”

“Thou hast been well taught,” the Colonel replied, and Kim flushed. “I

have left my cheroot-case in the Padre’s veranda. Bring it to my house

this even.”

“Where is the house?” said Kim. His quick wit told him that he was

being tested in some fashion or another, and he stood on guard.

“Ask anyone in the big bazar.” The Colonel walked on.

“He has forgotten his cheroot-case,” said Kim, returning. “I must bring

it to him this evening. That is all my letter except, thrice over,

_Come to me! Come to me! Come to me!_ Now I will pay for a stamp and

put it in the post. He rose to go, and as an afterthought asked: “Who

is that angry-faced Sahib who lost the cheroot-case?”

“Oh, he is only Creighton Sahib—a very foolish Sahib, who is a Colonel

Sahib without a regiment.”

“What is his business?”

“God knows. He is always buying horses which he cannot ride, and asking

riddles about the works of God—such as plants and stones and the

customs of people. The dealers call him the father of fools, because he

is so easily cheated about a horse. Mahbub Ali says he is madder than

most other Sahibs.”

“Oh!” said Kim, and departed. His training had given him some small

knowledge of character, and he argued that fools are not given

information which leads to calling out eight thousand men besides guns.

The Commander-in-Chief of all India does not talk, as Kim had heard him

talk, to fools. Nor would Mahbub Ali’s tone have changed, as it did

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 _tum_ 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

an English guide would have talked of the Mutiny.

“Now we will go to the school,” said Kim at last. The great old school

of St Xavier’s in Partibus, block on block of low white buildings,

stands in vast grounds over against the Gumti River, at some distance

from the city.

“What like of folk are they within?” said Kim.

“Young Sahibs—all devils. But to speak truth, and I drive many of them

to and fro from the railway station, I have never seen one that had in

him the making of a more perfect devil than thou—this young Sahib whom

I am now driving.”

Naturally, for he was never trained to consider them in any way

improper, Kim had passed the time of day with one or two frivolous

ladies at upper windows in a certain street, and naturally, in the

exchange of compliments, had acquitted himself well. He was about to

acknowledge the driver’s last insolence, when his eye—it was growing

dusk—caught a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate-pillars

in the long sweep of wall.

“Stop!” he cried. “Stay here. I do not go to the school at once.”

“But what is to pay me for this coming and re-coming?” said the driver

petulantly. “Is the boy mad? Last time it was a dancing-girl. This time

it is a priest.”

Kim was in the road headlong, patting the dusty feet beneath the dirty

yellow robe.

“I have waited here a day and a half,” the lama’s level voice began.

“Nay, I had a disciple with me. He that was my friend at the Temple of

the Tirthankars gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares

in the _te-rain_, when thy letter was given me. Yes, I am well fed. I

need nothing.”

“But why didst thou not stay with the Kulu woman, O Holy One? In what

way didst thou get to Benares? My heart has been heavy since we

parted.”

“The woman wearied me by constant flux of talk and requiring charms for

children. I separated myself from that company, permitting her to

acquire merit by gifts. She is at least a woman of open hands, and I

made a promise to return to her house if need arose. Then, perceiving

myself alone in this great and terrible world, I bethought me of the

_te-rain_ to Benares, where I knew one abode in the Tirthankars’ Temple

who was a Seeker, even as I.”

“Ah! Thy River,” said Kim. “I had forgotten the River.”

“So soon, my _chela?_ I have never forgotten it. But when I had left

thee it seemed better that I should go to the Temple and take counsel,

for, look you, India is very large, and it may be that wise men before

us, some two or three, have left a record of the place of our River.

There is debate in the Temple of the Tirthankars on this matter; some

saying one thing, and some another. They are courteous folk.”

“So be it; but what dost thou do now?”

“I acquire merit in that I help thee, my _chela_, to wisdom. The priest

of that body of men who serve the Red Bull wrote me that all should be

as I desired for thee. I sent the money to suffice for one year, and

then I came, as thou seest me, to watch for thee going up into the

Gates of Learning. A day and a half have I waited, not because I was

led by any affection towards thee—that is no part of the Way—but, as

they said at the Tirthankars’ Temple, because, money having been paid

for learning, it was right that I should oversee the end of the matter.

They resolved my doubts most clearly. I had a fear that, perhaps, I

came because I wished to see thee—misguided by the Red Mist of

affection. It is not so ... Moreover, I am troubled by a dream.”

“But surely, Holy One, thou hast not forgotten the Road and all that

befell on it. Surely it was a little to see me that thou didst come?”

“The horses are cold, and it is past their feeding-time,” whined the

driver.

“Go to Jehannum and abide there with thy reputationless aunt!” Kim

snarled over his shoulder. “I am all alone in this land; I know not

where I go nor what shall befall me. My heart was in that letter I sent

thee. Except for Mahbub Ali, and he is a Pathan, I have no friend save

thee, Holy One. Do not altogether go away.”

“I have considered that also,” the lama replied, in a shaking voice.

“It is manifest that from time to time I shall acquire merit if before

that I have not found my River—by assuring myself that thy feet are set

on wisdom. What they will teach thee I do not know, but the priest

wrote me that no son of a Sahib in all India will be better taught than

thou. So from time to time, therefore, I will come again. Maybe thou

wilt be such a Sahib as he who gave me these spectacles”—the lama wiped

them elaborately—“in the Wonder House at Lahore. That is my hope, for

he was a Fountain of Wisdom—wiser than many abbots .... Again, maybe

thou wilt forget me and our meetings.”

“If I eat thy bread,” cried Kim passionately, “how shall I ever forget

thee?”

“No—no.” He put the boy aside. “I must go back to Benares. From time to

time, now that I know the customs of letter-writers in this land, I

will send thee a letter, and from time to time I will come and see

thee.”

“But whither shall I send my letters?” wailed Kim, clutching at the

robe, all forgetful that he was a Sahib.

“To the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares. That is the place I have

chosen till I find my River. Do not weep; for, look you, all Desire is

Illusion and a new binding upon the Wheel. Go up to the Gates of

Learning. Let me see thee go ... Dost thou love me? Then go, or my

heart cracks ... I will come again. Surely I will come again.

The lama watched the _ticca-gharri_ rumble into the compound, and

strode off, snuffing between each long stride.

“The Gates of Learning” shut with a clang.

The country born and bred boy has his own manners and customs, which do

not resemble those of any other land; and his teachers approach him by

roads which an English master would not understand. Therefore, you

would scarcely be interested in Kim’s experiences as a St Xavier’s boy

among two or three hundred precocious youths, most of whom had never

seen the sea. He suffered the usual penalties for breaking out of

bounds when there was cholera in the city. This was before he had

learned to write fair English, and so was obliged to find a bazar

letter-writer. He was, of course, indicted for smoking and for the use

of abuse more full-flavoured than even St Xavier’s had ever heard. He

learned to wash himself with the Levitical scrupulosity of the

native-born, who in his heart considers the Englishman rather dirty. He

played the usual tricks on the patient coolies pulling the punkahs in

the sleeping-rooms where the boys threshed through the hot nights

telling tales till the dawn; and quietly he measured himself against

his self-reliant mates.

They were sons of subordinate officials in the Railway, Telegraph, and

Canal Services; of warrant-officers, sometimes retired and sometimes

acting as commanders-in-chief to a feudatory Rajah’s army; of captains

of the Indian Marine Government pensioners, planters, Presidency

shopkeepers, and missionaries. A few were cadets of the old Eurasian

houses that have taken strong root in Dhurrumtollah—Pereiras, De

Souzas, and D’Silvas. Their parents could well have educated them in

England, but they loved the school that had served their own youth, and

generation followed sallow-hued generation at St Xavier’s. Their homes

ranged from Howrah of the railway people to abandoned cantonments like

Monghyr and Chunar; lost tea-gardens Shillong-way; villages where their

fathers were large landholders in Oudh or the Deccan; Mission-stations

a week from the nearest railway line; seaports a thousand miles south,

facing the brazen Indian surf; and cinchona-plantations south of all.

The mere story of their adventures, which to them were no adventures,

on their road to and from school would have crisped a Western boy’s

hair. They were used to jogging off alone through a hundred miles of

jungle, where there was always the delightful chance of being delayed

by tigers; but they would no more have bathed in the English Channel in

an English August than their brothers across the world would have lain

still while a leopard snuffed at their palanquin. There were boys of

fifteen who had spent a day and a half on an islet in the middle of a

flooded river, taking charge, as by right, of a camp of frantic

pilgrims returning from a shrine. There were seniors who had

requisitioned a chance-met Rajah’s elephant, in the name of St Francis

Xavier, when the Rains once blotted out the cart-track that led to

their father’s estate, and had all but lost the huge beast in a

quicksand. There was a boy who, he said, and none doubted, had helped

his father to beat off with rifles from the veranda a rush of Akas in

the days when those head-hunters were bold against lonely plantations.

And every tale was told in the even, passionless voice of the

native-born, mixed with quaint reflections, borrowed unconsciously from

native foster-mothers, and turns of speech that showed they had been

that instant translated from the vernacular. Kim watched, listened, and

approved. This was not insipid, single-word talk of drummer-boys. It

dealt with a life he knew and in part understood. The atmosphere suited

him, and he throve by inches. They gave him a white drill suit as the

weather warmed, and he rejoiced in the new-found bodily comforts as he

rejoiced to use his sharpened mind over the tasks they set him. His

quickness would have delighted an English master; but at St Xavier’s

they know the first rush of minds developed by sun and surroundings, as

they know the half-collapse that sets in at twenty-two or twenty-three.

None the less he remembered to hold himself lowly. When tales were told

of hot nights, Kim did not sweep the board with his reminiscences; for

St Xavier’s looks down on boys who “go native all-together.” One must

never forget that one is a Sahib, and that some day, when examinations

are passed, one will command natives. Kim made a note of this, for he

began to understand where examinations led.

Then came the holidays from August to October—the long holidays imposed

by the heat and the Rains. Kim was informed that he would go north to

some station in the hills behind Umballa, where Father Victor would

arrange for him.

“A barrack-school?” said Kim, who had asked many questions and thought

more.

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the master. “It will not do you any harm to

keep you out of mischief. You can go up with young De Castro as far as

Delhi.”

Kim considered it in every possible light. He had been diligent, even

as the Colonel advised. A boy’s holiday was his own property—of so much

the talk of his companions had advised him,—and a barrack-school would

be torment after St Xavier’s. Moreover—this was magic worth anything

else—he could write. In three months he had discovered how men can

speak to each other without a third party, at the cost of half an anna

and a little knowledge. No word had come from the lama, but there

remained the Road. Kim yearned for the caress of soft mud squishing up

between the toes, as his mouth watered for mutton stewed with butter

and cabbages, for rice speckled with strong scented cardamoms, for the

saffron-tinted rice, garlic and onions, and the forbidden greasy

sweetmeats of the bazars. They would feed him raw beef on a platter at

the barrack-school, and he must smoke by stealth. But again, he was a

Sahib and was at St Xavier’s, and that pig Mahbub Ali ... No, he would

not test Mahbub’s hospitality—and yet ... He thought it out alone in

the dormitory, and came to the conclusion he had been unjust to Mahbub.

The school was empty; nearly all the masters had gone away; Colonel

Creighton’s railway pass lay in his hand, and Kim puffed himself that

he had not spent Colonel Creighton’s or Mahbub’s money in riotous

living. He was still lord of two rupees seven annas. His new

bullock-trunk, marked “K. O’H.”, and bedding-roll lay in the empty

sleeping-room.

“Sahibs are always tied to their baggage,” said Kim, nodding at them.

“You will stay here” He went out into the warm rain, smiling sinfully,

and sought a certain house whose outside he had noted down some time

before...

“Arre”! Dost thou know what manner of women we be in this quarter? Oh,

shame!”

“Was I born yesterday?” Kim squatted native-fashion on the cushions of

that upper room. “A little dyestuff and three yards of cloth to help

out a jest. Is it much to ask?”

“Who is _she?_ Thou art full young, as Sahibs go, for this devilry.”

“Oh, she? She is the daughter of a certain schoolmaster of a regiment

in the cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their

wall in these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener’s boy. Old men are

very jealous.”

“That is true. Hold thy face still while I dab on the juice.”

“Not too black, _Naikan_. I would not appear to her as a _hubshi_

(nigger).”

“Oh, love makes nought of these things. And how old is she?”

“Twelve years, I think,” said the shameless Kim. “Spread it also on the

breast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me, and if I am

piebald—” he laughed.

The girl worked busily, dabbing a twist of cloth into a little saucer

of brown dye that holds longer than any walnut-juice.

“Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head is

all unshaved! And he will surely knock off my turban.”

“I am not a barber, but I will make shift. Thou wast born to be a

breaker of hearts! All this disguise for one evening? Remember, the

stuff does not wash away.” She shook with laughter till her bracelets

and anklets jingled. “But who is to pay me for this? Huneefa herself

could not have given thee better stuff.”

“Trust in the Gods, my sister,” said Kim gravely, screwing his face

round as the stain dried. “Besides, hast thou ever helped to paint a

Sahib thus before?”

“Never indeed. But a jest is not money.”

“It is worth much more.”

“Child, thou art beyond all dispute the most shameless son of Shaitan

that I have ever known to take up a poor girl’s time with this play,

and then to say: ‘Is not the jest enough?’ Thou wilt go very far in

this world.” She gave the dancing-girls’ salutation in mockery.

“All one. Make haste and rough-cut my head.” Kim shifted from foot to

foot, his eyes ablaze with mirth as he thought of the fat days before

him. He gave the girl four annas, and ran down the stairs in the

likeness of a low-caste Hindu boy—perfect in every detail. A cookshop

was his next point of call, where he feasted in extravagance and greasy

luxury.

On Lucknow station platform he watched young De Castro, all covered

with prickly-heat, get into a second-class compartment. Kim patronized

a third, and was the life and soul of it. He explained to the company

that he was assistant to a juggler who had left him behind sick with

fever, and that he would pick up his master at Umballa. As the

occupants of the carriage changed, he varied this tale, or adorned it

with all the shoots of a budding fancy, the more rampant for being held

off native speech so long. In all India that night was no human being

so joyful as Kim. At Umballa he got out and headed eastward, plashing

over the sodden fields to the village where the old soldier lived.

About this time Colonel Creighton at Simla was advised from Lucknow by

wire that young O’Hara had disappeared. Mahbub Ali was in town selling

horses, and to him the Colonel confided the affair one morning

cantering round Annandale racecourse.

“Oh, that is nothing,” said the horse-dealer. “Men are like horses. At

certain times they need salt, and if that salt is not in the mangers

they will lick it up from the earth. He has gone back to the Road again

for a while. The _madrissah_ wearied him. I knew it would. Another

time, I will take him upon the Road myself. Do not be troubled,

Creighton Sahib. It is as though a polo-pony, breaking loose, ran out

to learn the game alone.”

“Then he is not dead, think you?”

“Fever might kill him. I do not fear for the boy otherwise. A monkey

does not fall among trees.”

Next morning, on the same course, Mahbub’s stallion ranged alongside

the Colonel.

“It is as I had thought,” said the horse-dealer. “He has come through

Umballa at least, and there he has written a letter to me, having

learned in the bazar that I was here.”

“Read,” said the Colonel, with a sigh of relief. It was absurd that a

man of his position should take an interest in a little country-bred

vagabond; but the Colonel remembered the conversation in the train, and

often in the past few months had caught himself thinking of the queer,

silent, self-possessed boy. His evasion, of course, was the height of

insolence, but it argued some resource and nerve.

Mahbub’s eyes twinkled as he reined out into the centre of the cramped

little plain, where none could come near unseen.

“‘_The Friend of the Stars, who is the Friend of all the World_—’”

“What is this?”

“A name we give him in Lahore city. ‘_The Friend of all the World takes

leave to go to his own places. He will come back upon the appointed

day. Let the box and the bedding-roll be sent for; and if there has

been a fault, let the Hand of Friendship turn aside the Whip of

Calamity._’ There is yet a little more, but—”

“No matter, read.”

“‘_Certain things are not known to those who eat with forks. It is

better to eat with both hands for a while. Speak soft words to those

who do not understand this that the return may be propitious._’ Now the

manner in which that was cast is, of course, the work of the

letter-writer, but see how wisely the boy has devised the matter of it

so that no hint is given except to those who know!”

“Is this the Hand of Friendship to avert the Whip of Calamity?” laughed

the Colonel.

“See how wise is the boy. He would go back to the Road again, as I

said. Not knowing yet thy trade—”

“I am not at all sure of that,” the Colonel muttered.

“He turns to me to make a peace between you. Is he not wise? He says he

will return. He is but perfecting his knowledge. Think, Sahib! He has

been three months at the school. And he is not mouthed to that bit. For

my part, I rejoice. The pony learns the game.”

“Ay, but another time he must not go alone.”

“Why? He went alone before he came under the Colonel Sahib’s

protection. When he comes to the Great Game he must go alone—alone, and

at peril of his head. _Then_, if he spits, or sneezes, or sits down

other than as the people do whom he watches, he may be slain. Why

hinder him now? Remember how the Persians say: The jackal that lives in

the wilds of Mazanderan can only be caught by the hounds of

Mazanderan.”

“True. It is true, Mahbub Ali. And if he comes to no harm, I do not

desire anything better. But it is great insolence on his part.”

“He does not tell me, even, whither he goes,” said Mahbub. “He is no

fool. When his time is accomplished he will come to me. It is time the

healer of pearls took him in hand. He ripens too quickly—as Sahibs

reckon.”

This prophecy was fulfilled to the letter a month later. Mahbub had

gone down to Umballa to bring up a fresh consignment of horses, and Kim

met him on the Kalka road at dusk riding alone, begged an alms of him,

was sworn at, and replied in English. There was nobody within earshot

to hear Mahbub’s gasp of amazement.

“Oho! And where hast thou been?”

“Up and down—down and up.”

“Come under a tree, out of the wet, and tell.”

“I stayed for a while with an old man near Umballa; anon with a

household of my acquaintance in Umballa. With one of these I went as

far as Delhi to the southward. That is a wondrous city. Then I drove a

bullock for a _teli_ (an oilman) coming north; but I heard of a great

feast forward in Patiala, and thither went I in the company of a

firework-maker. It was a great feast” (Kim rubbed his stomach). “I saw

Rajahs, and elephants with gold and silver trappings; and they lit all

the fireworks at once, whereby eleven men were killed, my

fire-work-maker among them, and I was blown across a tent but took no

harm. Then I came back to the _rêl_ with a Sikh horseman, to whom I was

groom for my bread; and so here.”

“_Shabash!_” said Mahbub Ali.

“But what does the Colonel Sahib say? I do not wish to be beaten.”

“The Hand of Friendship has averted the Whip of Calamity; but another

time, when thou takest the Road it will be with me. This is too early.”

“Late enough for me. I have learned to read and to write English a

little at the _madrissah_. I shall soon be altogether a Sahib.”

“Hear him!” laughed Mahbub, looking at the little drenched figure

dancing in the wet. “Salaam—Sahib,” and he saluted ironically.

“Well, art tired of the Road, or wilt thou come on to Umballa with me

and work back with the horses?”

“I come with thee, Mahbub Ali.”