Kim
Ali, or send me some money, for I have not sufficient to pay the writer
who writes this._”
“‘Who writes this.’ It is my own fault that I was tricked. Thou art as
clever as Husain Bux that forged the Treasury stamps at Nucklao. But
what a tale! What a tale! Is it true by any chance?”
“It does not profit to tell lies to Mahbub Ali. It is better to help
his friends by lending them a stamp. When the money comes I will
repay.”
The writer grunted doubtfully, but took a stamp out of his desk, sealed
the letter, handed it over to Kim, and departed. Mahbub Ali’s was a
name of power in Umballa.
“That is the way to win a good account with the Gods,” Kim shouted
after him.
“Pay me twice over when the money comes,” the man cried over his
shoulder.
“What was you bukkin’ to that nigger about?” said the drummer-boy when
Kim returned to the veranda. “I was watch-in’ you.”
“I was only talkin’ to him.”
“You talk the same as a nigger, don’t you?”
“No-ah! No-ah! I onlee speak a little. What shall we do now?”
“The bugles’ll go for dinner in arf a minute. My Gawd! I wish I’d gone
up to the Front with the Regiment. It’s awful doin’ nothin’ but school
down ’ere. Don’t you ’ate it?”
“Oah yess!”
I’d run away if I knew where to go to, but, as the men say, in this
bloomin’ Injia you’re only a prisoner at large. You can’t desert
without bein’ took back at once. I’m fair sick of it.”
“You have been in Be—England?”
“W’y, I only come out last troopin’ season with my mother. I should
think I ’ave been in England. What a ignorant little beggar you are!
You was brought up in the gutter, wasn’t you?”
“Oah yess. Tell me something about England. My father he came from
there.”
Though he would not say so, Kim of course disbelieved every word the
drummer-boy spoke about the Liverpool suburb which was his England. It
passed the heavy time till dinner—a most unappetizing meal served to
the boys and a few invalids in a corner of a barrack-room. But that he
had written to Mahbub Ali, Kim would have been almost depressed. The
indifference of native crowds he was used to; but this strong
loneliness among white men preyed on him. He was grateful when, in the
course of the afternoon, a big soldier took him over to Father Victor,
who lived in another wing across another dusty parade-ground. The
priest was reading an English letter written in purple ink. He looked
at Kim more curiously than ever.
“An’ how do you like it, my son, as far as you’ve gone? Not much, eh?
It must be hard—very hard on a wild animal. Listen now. I’ve an amazin’
epistle from your friend.”
“Where is he? Is he well? Oah! If he knows to write me letters, it is
all right.”
“You’re fond of him then?”
“_Of_ course I am fond of him. He was fond of me.”
“It seems so by the look of this. He can’t write English, can he?”
“Oah no. Not that I know, but _of_ course he found a letter-writer who
can write English verree well, and so he wrote. I do hope you
understand.”
“That accounts for it. D’you know anything about his money affairs?”
Kim’s face showed that he did not.
“How can I tell?”
“That’s what I’m askin’. Now listen if you can make head or tail o’
this. We’ll skip the first part ... It’s written from Jagadhir Road ...
‘_Sitting on wayside in grave meditation, trusting to be favoured with
your Honour’s applause of present step, which recommend your Honour to
execute for Almighty God’s sake. Education is greatest blessing if of
best sorts. Otherwise no earthly use._’ Faith, the old man’s hit the
bull’s-eye that time! ‘_If your Honour condescending giving my boy best
educations Xavier_’ (I suppose that’s St Xavier’s in Partibus) ‘_in
terms of our conversation dated in your tent 15th instant_’ (a
business-like touch there!) ‘_then Almighty God blessing your Honour’s
succeedings to third an’ fourth generation and_’—now listen!—‘_confide
in your Honour’s humble servant for adequate remuneration per hoondi
per annum three hundred rupees a year to one expensive education St
Xavier, Lucknow, and allow small time to forward same per hoondi sent
to any part of India as your Honour shall address yourself. This
servant of your Honour has presently no place to lay crown of his head,
but going to Benares by train on account of persecution of old woman
talking so much and unanxious residing Saharunpore in any domestic
capacity._’ Now what in the world does that mean?”
“She has asked him to be her _puro_—her clergyman—at Saharunpore, _I_
think. He would not do that on account of his River. She _did_ talk.”
“It’s clear to you, is it? It beats me altogether. ‘_So going to
Benares, where will find address and forward rupees for boy who is
apple of eye, and for Almighty God’s sake execute this education, and
your petitioner as in duty bound shall ever awfully pray. Written by
Sobrao Satai, Failed Entrance Allahabad University, for Venerable
Teshoo Lama the priest of Such-zen looking for a River, address care of
Tirthankars’ Temple, Benares. P. M.—Please note boy is apple of eye,
and rupees shall be sent per hoondi three hundred per annum. For God
Almighty’s sake._’ Now, is that ravin’ lunacy or a business
proposition? I ask you, because I’m fairly at my wits’ end.”
“He says he will give me three hundred rupees a year? So he will give
me them.”
“Oh, that’s the way you look at it, is it?”
“_Of_ course. If he says so!”
The priest whistled; then he addressed Kim as an equal. “I don’t
believe it; but we’ll see. You were goin’ off today to the Military
Orphanage at Sanawar, where the Regiment would keep you till you were
old enough to enlist. Ye’d be brought up to the Church of England.
Bennett arranged for that. On the other hand, if ye go to St Xavier’s
ye’ll get a better education an—an can have the religion. D’ye see my
dilemma? Kim saw nothing save a vision of the lama going south in a
train with none to beg for him.
“Like most people, I’m going to temporize. If your friend sends the
money from Benares—Powers of Darkness below, where’s a street-beggar to
raise three hundred rupees?—ye’ll go down to Lucknow and I’ll pay your
fare, because I can’t touch the subscription-money if I intend, as I
do, to make ye a Catholic. If he doesn’t, ye’ll go to the Military
Orphanage at the Regiment’s expense. I’ll allow him three days’ grace,
though I don’t believe it at all. Even then, if he fails in his
payments later on ... but it’s beyond me. We can only walk one step at
a time in this world, praise God! An’ they sent Bennett to the Front
an’ left me behind. Bennett can’t expect everything.”
“Oah yess,” said Kim vaguely.
The priest leaned forward. “I’d give a month’s pay to find what’s goin’
on inside that little round head of yours.”
“There is nothing,” said Kim, and scratched it. He was wondering
whether Mahbub Ali would send him as much as a whole rupee. Then he
could pay the letter-writer and write letters to the lama at Benares.
Perhaps Mahbub Ali would visit him next time he came south with horses.
Surely he must know that Kim’s delivery of the letter to the officer at
Umballa had caused the great war which the men and boys had discussed
so loudly over the barrack dinner-tables. But if Mahbub Ali did not
know this, it would be very unsafe to tell him so. Mahbub Ali was hard
upon boys who knew, or thought they knew, too much.
“Well, till I get further news”—Father Victor’s voice interrupted the
reverie. “Ye can run along now and play with the other boys. They’ll
teach ye something—but I don’t think ye’ll like it.”
The day dragged to its weary end. When he wished to sleep he was
instructed how to fold up his clothes and set out his boots; the other
boys deriding. Bugles waked him in the dawn; the schoolmaster caught
him after breakfast, thrust a page of meaningless characters under his
nose, gave them senseless names and whacked him without reason. Kim
meditated poisoning him with opium borrowed from a barrack-sweeper, but
reflected that, as they all ate at one table in public (this was
peculiarly revolting to Kim, who preferred to turn his back on the
world at meals), the stroke might be dangerous. Then he attempted
running off to the village where the priest had tried to drug the
lama—the village where the old soldier lived. But far-seeing sentries
at every exit headed back the little scarlet figure. Trousers and
jacket crippled body and mind alike so he abandoned the project and
fell back, Oriental-fashion, on time and chance. Three days of torment
passed in the big, echoing white rooms. He walked out of afternoons
under escort of the drummer-boy, and all he heard from his companions
were the few useless words which seemed to make two-thirds of the white
man’s abuse. Kim knew and despised them all long ago. The boy resented
his silence and lack of interest by beating him, as was only natural.
He did not care for any of the bazars which were in bounds. He styled
all natives “niggers”; yet servants and sweepers called him abominable
names to his face, and, misled by their deferential attitude, he never
understood. This somewhat consoled Kim for the beatings.
On the morning of the fourth day a judgement overtook that drummer.
They had gone out together towards Umballa racecourse. He returned
alone, weeping, with news that young O’Hara, to whom he had been doing
nothing in particular, had hailed a scarlet-bearded nigger on
horseback; that the nigger had then and there laid into him with a
peculiarly adhesive quirt, picked up young O’Hara, and borne him off at
full gallop. These tidings came to Father Victor, and he drew down his
long upper lip. He was already sufficiently startled by a letter from
the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares, enclosing a native banker’s
note of hand for three hundred rupees, and an amazing prayer to
“Almighty God”. The lama would have been more annoyed than the priest
had he known how the bazar letter-writer had translated his phrase “to
acquire merit.”
“Powers of Darkness below!” Father Victor fumbled with the note. “An’
now he’s off with another of his peep-o’-day friends. I don’t know
whether it will be a greater relief to me to get him back or to have
him lost. He’s beyond my comprehension. How the Divil—yes, he’s the man
I mean—can a street-beggar raise money to educate white boys?”
Three miles off, on Umballa racecourse, Mahbub Ali, reining a grey
Kabuli stallion with Kim in front of him, was saying:
“But, Little Friend of all the World, there is _my_ honour and
reputation to be considered. All the officer-Sahibs in all the
regiments, and all Umballa, know Mahbub Ali. Men saw me pick thee up
and chastise that boy. We are seen now from far across this plain. How
can I take thee away, or account for thy disappearing if I set thee
down and let thee run off into the crops? They would put me in jail. Be
patient. Once a Sahib, always a Sahib. When thou art a man—who
knows?—thou wilt be grateful to Mahbub Ali.”
“Take me beyond their sentries where I can change this red. Give me
money and I will go to Benares and be with my lama again. I do not want
to be a Sahib, and remember I did deliver that message.”
The stallion bounded wildly. Mahbub Ali had incautiously driven home
the sharp-edged stirrup. (He was not the new sort of fluent
horse-dealer who wears English boots and spurs.) Kim drew his own
conclusions from that betrayal.
“That was a small matter. It lay on the straight road to Benares. I and
the Sahib have by this time forgotten it. I send so many letters and
messages to men who ask questions about horses, I cannot well remember
one from the other. Was it some matter of a bay mare that Peters Sahib
wished the pedigree of?”
Kim saw the trap at once. If he had said “bay mare” Mahbub would have
known by his very readiness to fall in with the amendment that the boy