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 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 Tirthankers 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 any one 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
all 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 kick-ball. 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 a 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 thy 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 no 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-garri with his neat belongings and dispatched 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 recoming?' 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 Tirthankers gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares in
the train, 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 Tirthankers' 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 Tirthankers 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 not part of the Way--but, as they said
at the Tirthankers' 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. May be 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, may be 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 Tirthankers 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-garri 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 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, 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
well 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 altogether.' 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? O
shame!'
'Was I born yesterday?' Kim squatted native fashion on the cushions of
that upper room. 'A little dye-stuff 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 patronised 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 race-course.
'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 quite 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 Puttiala, 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 firework-maker
among them, and I was blown across a tent but took no harm. Then I came
back 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 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.'