CHAPTER VII
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised With idiot moons and stars retracting 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 fray (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 wasordered to go away and play. Then he ran to the bazar, and found theyoung letter-writer to whom he owed a stamp.
'Now I pay,' said Kim royally, 'and now I need another letter to bewritten.'
'Mahbub Ali is in Umballa,' said the writer jauntily. He was, by virtueof 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 isnow in the Temple of the Tirthankers at Benares." Take more ink! "Inthree days I am to go down to Nucklao to the school at Nucklao. The nameof the school is Xavier. I do not know where that school is, but it isat 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 hishead. '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 isbeckoning 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?' TheColonel 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 ofstrangers concerned in any matter, because by the naming of names manygood plans are brought to confusion.'
'Thou hast been well taught,' the Colonel replied, and Kim flushed. 'Ihave left my cheroot-case in the padre's veranda. Bring it to my housethis even.'
'Where is the house?' said Kim. His quick wit told him that he was beingtested in some fashion or another, and he stood on guard.
'Ask any one in the big bazar.' The Colonel walked on.
'He has forgotten his cheroot-case,' said Kim, returning. 'I must bringit to him this evening. That is all my letter except, thrice over, "Cometo me! Come to me! Come to me!" Now I will pay for a stamp and put it inthe post.' He rose to go, and as an afterthought asked, 'Who is thatangry-faced Sahib who lost the cheroot-case?'
'Oh, he is only Creighton Sahib--a very foolish Sahib, who is a ColonelSahib without a regiment.'
'What is his business?'
'God knows. He is always buying horses which he cannot ride, and askingriddles about the works of God--such as plants and stones and thecustoms of people. The dealers call him the father of fools, because heis so easily cheated about a horse. Mahbub Ali says he is madder thanall other Sahibs.'
'Oh!' said Kim, and departed. His training had given him some smallknowledge of character, and he argued that fools are not giveninformation which leads to calling out eight thousand men, besides guns.The Commander-in-Chief of all India does not talk, as Kim had heard himtalk, to fools. Nor would Mahbub Ali's tone have changed, as it didevery time he mentioned the Colonel's name, if the Colonel had been afool. Consequently--and this set Kim to skipping--there was a mysterysomewhere, and Mahbub Ali probably spied for the Colonel much as Kim hadspied for Mahbub. And, like the horse-dealer, the Colonel evidentlyrespected people who did not show themselves to be too clever.
He rejoiced that he had not betrayed his knowledge of the Colonel'shouse; and when, on his return to barracks, he discovered that nocheroot-case had been left behind, he beamed with delight. Here was aman after his own heart--a tortuous and indirect person playing a hiddengame. Well, if he could be a fool, so could Kim.
He showed nothing of his mind when Father Victor, for three longmornings, discoursed to him of an entirely new set of gods andgodlings--notably of a goddess called Mary, who, he gathered, was onewith Bibi Miriam of Mahbub Ali's theology. He betrayed no emotion when,after the lecture, Father Victor dragged him from shop to shop buyingarticles of outfit, nor when envious drummer-boys kicked him because hewas going to a superior school did he complain, but awaited the play ofcircumstances with an interested soul. Father Victor, good man, took himto the station, put him into an empty second-class next to ColonelCreighton'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', Ihope, a good man. They know all about your comin', an' the Colonel willsee that ye're not lost or mislaid anywhere on the road. I've given youa notion of religious matters,--at least I hope so,--and you'llremember, 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 thebazar--and lay down to think. This solitary passage was very differentfrom that joyful down-journey in the third-class with the lama. 'Sahibsget little pleasure of travel,' he reflected. 'Hai mai! I go from oneplace to another as it might be a kick-ball. It is my kismet. No mancan escape his kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi Miriam and I am aSahib'--he looked at his boots ruefully. 'No; I am Kim. This is thegreat world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?' He considered his ownidentity, a thing he had never done before, till his head swam. He wasone insignificant person in all this roaring whirl of India, goingsouthward to he knew not what fate.
Presently the Colonel sent for him, and talked for a long time. So faras Kim could gather, he was to be diligent and enter the Survey of Indiaas a chain-man. If he were very good, and passed the properexaminations, he would be earning thirty rupees a month at seventeenyears old, and Colonel Creighton would see that he found a suitableemployment.
Kim pretended at first to understand perhaps one word in three of thistalk. Then the Colonel, seeing his mistake, turned to fluent andpicturesque Urdu and Kim was contented. No man could be a fool who knewthe language so intimately, who moved so gently and silently, and whoseeyes were so different from the dull fat eyes of other Sahibs.
'Yes, and thou must learn how to make pictures of roads and mountainsand rivers--to carry these pictures in thy eye till a suitable timecomes to set them upon paper. Perhaps some day, when thou art achain-man, I may say to thee when we are working together: "Go acrossthose hills and see what lies beyond." Then one will say: "There are badpeople living in those hills who will slay the chain-man if he be seento 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 ofwhat is behind those hills--for a picture of a river and a little newsof what the people say in the villages there"?'
'How can I tell? I am only a boy. Wait till I am a man.' Then, seeingthe Colonel's brow clouded, he went on: 'But I think I should in a fewdays earn the hundred rupees.'
'By what road?'
Kim shook his head resolutely. 'If I said how I would earn them, anotherman might hear and forestall me. It is no good to sell knowledge fornothing.'
'Tell now.' The Colonel held up a rupee. Kim's hand half reached towardsit, and dropped.
'Nay, Sahib; nay. I know the price that will be paid for the answer, butI do not know why the question is asked.'
'Take it for a gift, then,' said Creighton, tossing it over. 'There is agood spirit in
thee. Do not let it be blunted at St. Xavier's. There aremany boys there who despise the black men.'
'Their mothers were bazar-women,' said Kim. He knew well there is nohatred 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 atany time be led to contemn the black men. I have known boys newlyentered into the service of the Government who feigned not to understandthe 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 southdid 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 MahbubAli employed me, I think. That is good, if it allows me to return to theroad again. This clothing grows no easier by wear.'
When they came to the crowded Lucknow station there was no sign of thelama. He swallowed his disappointment, while the Colonel bundled himinto a ticca-garri with his neat belongings and dispatched him alone toSt. 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 yettried.'
'Not when I brought thee'--Kim actually dared to use the tum ofequals--'a white stallion's pedigree that night?'
'Much is gained by forgetting, little brother,' said the Colonel, with alook that pierced through Kim's shoulder-blades as he scuttled into thecarriage.
It took him nearly five minutes to recover. Then he sniffed the new airappreciatively. 'A rich city,' he said. 'Richer than Lahore. How goodthe bazars must be! Coachman, drive me a little through the bazarshere.'
'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 mostfluent vernacular Kim pointed out his error, climbed on to the box-seat,and, perfect understanding established, drove for a couple of hours upand down, estimating, comparing, and enjoying. There is no city--exceptBombay, the queen of all--more beautiful in her garish style thanLucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river, or from thetop of the Imambara looking down on the gilt umbrellas of the ChutterMunzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings have adornedher with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities, crammed herwith pensioners, and drenched her with blood. She is the centre of allidleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the claim to talkthe only pure Urdu.
'A fair city--a beautiful city.' The driver, as a Lucknow man, waspleased with the compliment, and told Kim many astounding things wherean English guide would have talked of the Mutiny.
'Now we will go to the school,' said Kim at last. The great old schoolof St. Xavier's in Partibus, block on block of low white buildings,stands in vast grounds over against the Gumti River, at some distancefrom the city.
'What like of folk are they within?' said Kim.
'Young Sahibs--all devils; but to speak truth, and I drive many of themto and fro from the railway station, I have never seen one that had inhim the making of a more perfect devil than thou--this young Sahib whomI am now driving.'
Naturally, for he was never trained to consider them in any wayimproper, Kim had passed the time of day with one or two frivolousladies at upper windows in a certain street, and naturally, in theexchange of compliments, had acquitted himself well. He was about toacknowledge the driver's last insolence, when his eye--it was growingdusk--caught a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate-pillarsin 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 recoming?' said the driverpetulantly. 'Is the boy mad? Last time it was a dancing-girl. This timeit is a priest.'
Kim was in the road headlong, patting the dusty feet beneath the dirtyyellow 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 ofthe Tirthankers gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares inthe train, when thy letter was given me. Yes, I am well fed. I neednothing.'
'But why didst thou not stay with the Kulu woman, O Holy One? In whatway 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 forchildren. I separated myself from that company, permitting her toacquire merit by gifts. She is at least a woman of open hands, and Imade a promise to return to her house if need arose. Then, perceivingmyself alone in this great and terrible world, I bethought me of thete-rain to Benares, where I knew one abode in the Tirthankers' Templewho 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 theeit 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. Thereis debate in the Temple of the Tirthankers on this matter; some sayingone 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 ofthat body of men who serve the Red Bull wrote me that all should be as Idesired for thee. I sent the money to suffice for one year, and then Icame, as thou seest me, to watch for thee going up into the Gates ofLearning. A day and a half have I waited--not because I was led by anyaffection towards thee--that is not part of the Way--but, as they saidat the Tirthankers' Temple, because, money having been paid forlearning, it was right that I should oversee the end of the matter. Theyresolved my doubts most clearly. I had a fear that, perhaps, I camebecause I wished to see thee--misguided by the red mist of affection. Itis not so. . . . Moreover, I am troubled by a dream.'
'But surely, Holy One, thou hast not forgotten the Road and all thatbefell 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 thedriver.
'Go to Jehannum and abide there with thy reputationless aunt!' Kimsnarled over his shoulder. 'I am all alone in this land; I know notwhere I go nor what shall befall me. My heart was in that letter I sentthee. Except for Mahbub Ali, and he is a Pathan, I have no friend savethee, Holy One. Do not altogether go away.'
'I have considered that also,' the lama replied, in a shaking voice. 'Itis manifest that from time to time I shall acquire merit--if before thatI have not found my River--by assuring myself that thy feet are set onwisdom. What they will teach thee I do not know, but the priest wrote methat no son of a Sahib in all India will be better taught than thou. Sofrom time to time, therefore, I will come again. May be thou wilt besuch a Sahib as he who gave me these spectacles'--the lama wiped themelaborately--'in the Wonder House at Lahore. That is my hope, for he wasa Fountain of Wisdom--wiser than many abbots. . . . Again, may be thouwilt forget me and our meetings.'
'If I eat thy bread,' cried Kim passionately, 'how shall I ever forgetthee?'
'No--no.' He put the boy aside. 'I must go back to Benares. From time totime, now that I know the customs of letter-writers in this land, I willsend 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 therobe, all forgetful that he was a Sahib.
'To the Temple of the Tirthankers at Benares. That is the place I havechosen till I find my River. Do not weep; for, look you, all Desire isillusion and a new binding upon the Wheel. Go up to the Gates ofLearning. Let me see thee go. . . . Dost thou love me? Then go, or myheart cracks. . . . I will come again. Surely I will come again.'
The lama watched the ticca-garri rumble into the compound, and strodeoff, 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 donot resemble those of any other land; and his teachers approach him byroads which an English master would not understand. Therefore, youwould scarcely be interested in Kim's experiences as a St. Xavier's boyamong two or three hundred precocious youths, most of whom had neverseen the sea. He suffered the usual penalties for breaking out of boundswhen there was cholera in the city. This was before he had learned towrite fair English, and so was obliged to find a bazar letter-writer. Hewas, of course, indicted for smoking and for the use of abuse morefull-flavoured than even St. Xavier's had ever heard. He learned to washhimself with the Levitical scrupulosity of the native-born, who in hisheart considers the Englishman rather dirty. He played the usual trickson the patient coolies pulling the punkahs in the sleeping-rooms wherethe boys thrashed 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, andCanal services; of warrant-officers sometimes retired and sometimesacting as commanders-in-chief to a feudatory Rajah's army; of captainsof the Indian Marine, Government pensioners, planters, Presidencyshopkeepers, and missionaries. A few were cadets of the old Eurasianhouses that have taken strong root in Dhurrumtollah--Pereiras, DeSouzas, and D'Silvas. Their parents could well have educated them inEngland, but they loved the school that had served their own youth, andgeneration followed sallow-hued generation at St. Xavier's. Their homesranged from Howrah of the railway people to abandoned cantonments likeMonghyr and Chunar; lost tea-gardens Shillong-way; villages where theirfathers were large landholders in Oudh or the Deccan; Mission-stations aweek 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, ontheir 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 EnglishAugust than their brothers across the world would have lain still whilea leopard snuffed at their palanquin. There were boys of fifteen who hadspent 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 froma shrine; there were seniors who had requisitioned a chance-met Rajah'selephant, in the name of St. Francis Xavier, when the rains once blottedout the cart-track that led to their father's estate, and had all butlost the huge beast in a quicksand. There was a boy who, he said, andnone doubted, had helped his father to beat off with rifles from theveranda a rush of Akas in the days when those head-hunters were boldagainst lonely plantations.
And every tale was told in the even, passionless voice of thenative-born, mixed with quaint reflections, borrowed unconsciously fromnative foster-mothers, and turns of speech that showed they had beenthat instant translated from the vernacular. Kim watched, listened, andapproved. This was not insipid, single-word talk of drummer-boys. Itdealt with a life he knew and in part understood. The atmosphere suitedhim, and he throve by inches. They gave him a white drill suit as theweather warmed, and he rejoiced in the new-found bodily comforts as herejoiced to use his sharpened mind over the tasks they set him. Hisquickness would have delighted an English master; but at St. Xavier'sthey know the first rush of minds developed by sun and surroundings, aswell as they know the half-collapse that sets in at twenty-two ortwenty-three.
None the less he remembered to hold himself lowly. When tales were toldof hot nights, Kim did not sweep the board with his reminiscences; forSt. Xavier's looks down on boys who 'go native altogether.' One mustnever forget that one is a Sahib, and that some day, when examinationsare passed, one will command natives. Kim made a note of this, for hebegan to understand where examinations led.
Then came the holidays from August to October--the long holidays imposedby the heat and the rains. Kim was informed that he would go north tosome station in the hills behind Umballa, where Father Victor wouldarrange for him.
'A barrack-school?' said Kim, who had asked many questions and thoughtmore.
'Yes, I suppose so,' said the master. 'It will not do you any harm tokeep you out of mischief. You can go up with young De Castro as far asDelhi.'
Kim considered it in every possible light. He had been diligent, even asthe Colonel advised. A boy's holiday was his own property,--of so muchthe talk of his companions had advised him,--and a barrack-school wouldbe torment after St. Xavier's. Moreover--this was magic worth anythingelse--he could write. In three months he had discovered how men canspeak to each other without a third party, at the cost of half an annaand a little knowledge. No word had come from the lama, but thereremained the Road. Kim yearned for the caress of soft mud squishing upbetween the toes, as his mouth watered for mutton stewed with butter andcabbages, for rice speckled with strong-scented cardamoms, for thesaffron-tinted rice, garlic and onions, and the forbidden greasysweetmeats of the bazars. They would feed him raw beef on a platter atthe barrack-school, and he must smoke by stealth. But again, he was aSahib and was at St. Xavier's, and that pig Mahbub Ali . . . No, he wouldnot test Mahbub's hospitality--and yet . . . He thought it out alone inthe dormitory, and came to the conclusion he had been unjust to Mahbub.
The school was empty; nearly all the masters had gone away; ColonelCreighton's railway-pass lay in his hand, and Kim puffed himself that hehad 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 timebefore. . . .
'Arre! Dost thou know what manner of women we be in this quarter? Oshame!'
'Was I born yesterday?' Kim squatted native fashion on the cushions ofthat upper room. 'A little dye-stuff and three yards of cloth to helpout 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 inthe cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their wallin these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener's boy. Old men are veryjealous.'
'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 thebreast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me and if I ampiebald--' he laughed.
The girl worked busily, dabbing a twist of cloth into a little saucer ofbrown dye that holds longer than any walnut juice.
'Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head isall unshaved! And he will surely knock off my turban.'
'I am not a barber, but I will make shift. Thou wast born to be abreaker of hearts! All this disguise for one evening? Remember, thestuff does not wash away.' She shook with laughter till her braceletsand anklets jingled. 'But who is to pay me for this? Huneefa herselfcould not have given thee better stuff.'
'Trust in the Gods, my sister,' said Kim gravely screwing his face roundas the stain dried. 'Besides, hast thou ever helped to paint a Sahibthus 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 Shaitanthat I have ever known to take up a poor girl's time with this play, andthen to say: "Is not the jest enough?" Thou wilt go very far in thisworld.' She gave the dancing-girls' salutation in mockery.
'All one. Make haste and rough-cut my head.' Kim shifted from foot tofoot, his eyes ablaze with mirth as he thought of the fat
days beforehim. He gave the girl four annas, and ran down the stairs in thelikeness of a low-caste Hindu boy--perfect in every detail. A cookshopwas his next point of call, where he feasted in extravagance and greasyluxury.
On Lucknow station platform he watched young De Castro, all covered withprickly-heat, get into a second-class compartment. Kim patronised athird, and was the life and soul of it. He explained to the company thathe 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 thecarriage changed, he varied this tale, or adorned it with all the shootsof a budding fancy, the more rampant for being held off native speech solong. In all India that night was no human being so joyful as Kim. AtUmballa he got out and headed eastward, plashing over the sodden fieldsto the village where the old soldier lived.
About this time Colonel Creighton at Simla was advised from Lucknow bywire that young O'Hara had disappeared. Mahbub Ali was in town sellinghorses, and to him the Colonel confided the affair one morning canteringround Annandale race-course.
'Oh, that is nothing,' said the horse-dealer. 'Men are like horses. Atcertain times they need salt, and if that salt is not in the mangersthey will lick it up from the earth. He has gone back to the Road againfor a while. The madrissah wearied him. I knew it would. Another time, Iwill take him upon the Road myself. Do not be troubled, CreightonSahib. It is as though a polo-pony, breaking loose, ran out to learn thegame alone.'
'Then he is not dead, think you?'
'Fever might kill him. I do not fear for the boy otherwise. A monkeydoes not fall among trees.'
Next morning, on the same course, Mahbub's stallion ranged alongside theColonel.
'It is as I had thought,' said the horse-dealer. 'He has come throughUmballa at least, and there he has written a letter to me, havinglearned in the bazar that I was here.'
'Read,' said the Colonel, with a sigh of relief. It was absurd that aman of his position should take an interest in a little country-bredvagabond; but the Colonel remembered the conversation in the train, andoften in the past few months had caught himself thinking of the queer,silent, self-possessed boy. His evasion, of course, was the height ofinsolence, but it argued some resource and nerve.
Mahbub's eyes twinkled as he reined out into the centre of the crampedlittle 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 takesleave 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 afault, 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 betterto eat with both hands for a while. Speak soft words to those who do notunderstand this that the return may be propitious." Now the manner inwhich that was cast is of course the work of the letter-writer, but seehow wisely the boy has devised the matter of it so that no hint is givenexcept to those who know!'
'Is this the Hand of Friendship to avert the Whip of Calamity?' laughedthe 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 quite sure of that,' the Colonel muttered.
'He turns to me to make a peace between you. Is he not wise? He says hewill return. He is but perfecting his knowledge. Think, Sahib! He hasbeen three months at the school. And he is not mouthed to that bit. Formy 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 ofhis head. Then, if he spits, or sneezes, or sits down other than as thepeople do whom he watches, he may be slain. Why hinder him now? Rememberhow the Persians say: The jackal that lives in the wilds of Mazanderancan only be caught by the hounds of Mazanderan.'
'True. It is true, Mahbub Ali. And if he comes to no harm, I do notdesire anything better. But it is great insolence on his part.'
'He does not tell me, even, whither he goes,' said Mahbub. 'He is nofool. When his time is accomplished he will come to me. It is time thehealer of pearls took him in hand. He ripens too quickly--as Sahibsreckon.'
This prophecy was fulfilled to the letter a month later. Mahbub had gonedown to Umballa to bring up a fresh consignment of horses, and Kim methim on the Kalka road at dusk riding alone, begged an alms of him, wassworn at, and replied in English. There was nobody within earshot tohear 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 ahousehold of my acquaintance in Umballa. With one of these I went as faras Delhi to the southward. That is a wondrous city. Then I drove abullock for a teli (an oilman) coming north; but I heard of a greatfeast forward in Puttiala, and thither went I in the company of afirework-maker. It was a great feast' (Kim rubbed his stomach). 'I sawRajahs, and elephants with gold and silver trappings; and they lit allthe fireworks at once, whereby eleven men were killed, my firework-makeramong them, and I was blown across a tent but took no harm. Then I cameback to the rel 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 anothertime, 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 alittle at the madrissah. I shall soon be altogether a Sahib.'
'Hear him!' laughed Mahbub, looking at the little drenched figuredancing 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 workback with the horses?'
'I come with thee, Mahbub Ali.'