Kim
suspected something. Kim replied therefore:
“Bay mare. No. _I_ do not forget my messages thus. It was a white
stallion.”
“Ay, so it was. A white Arab stallion. But thou didst write ‘bay mare’
to me.”
“Who cares to tell truth to a letter-writer?” Kim answered, feeling
Mahbub’s palm on his heart.
“Hi! Mahbub, you old villain, pull up!” cried a voice, and an
Englishman raced alongside on a little polo-pony. “I’ve been chasing
you half over the country. That Kabuli of yours can go. For sale, I
suppose?”
“I have some young stuff coming on made by Heaven for the delicate and
difficult polo-game. He has no equal. He—”
“Plays polo and waits at table. Yes. We know all that. What the deuce
have you got there?”
“A. boy,” said Mahbub gravely. “He was being beaten by another boy. His
father was once a white soldier in the big war. The boy was a child in
Lahore city. He played with my horses when he was a babe. Now I think
they will make him a soldier. He has been newly caught by his father’s
Regiment that went up to the war last week. But I do not think he wants
to be a soldier. I take him for a ride. Tell me where thy barracks are
and I will set thee there.”
“Let me go. I can find the barracks alone.”
“And if thou runnest away who will say it is not my fault?”
“He’ll run back to his dinner. Where has he to run to?” the Englishman
asked.
“He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses. He
is a _chabuk sawai_ (a sharp chap). It needs only to change his
clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindu boy.”
“The deuce he would!” The Englishman looked critically at the boy as
Mahbub headed towards the barracks. Kim ground his teeth. Mahbub was
mocking him, as faithless Afghans will; for he went on:
“They will send him to a school and put heavy boots on his feet and
swaddle him in these clothes. Then he will forget all he knows. Now,
which of the barracks is thine?”
Kim pointed—he could not speak—to Father Victor’s wing, all staring
white near by.
“Perhaps he will make a good soldier,” said Mahbub reflectively.
“He will make a good orderly at least. I sent him to deliver a message
once from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a white
stallion.”
Here was deadly insult on deadlier injury—and the Sahib to whom he had
so craftily given that war-waking letter heard it all. Kim beheld
Mahbub Ali frying in flame for his treachery, but for himself he saw
one long grey vista of barracks, schools, and barracks again. He gazed
imploringly at the clear-cut face in which there was no glimmer of
recognition; but even at this extremity it never occurred to him to
throw himself on the white man’s mercy or to denounce the Afghan. And
Mahbub stared deliberately at the Englishman, who stared as
deliberately at Kim, quivering and tongue-tied.
“My horse is well trained,” said the dealer. “Others would have kicked,
Sahib.”
“Ah,” said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony’s damp withers with
his whip-butt. “Who makes the boy a soldier?”
“He says the Regiment that found him, and especially the Padre-sahib of
that regiment.
“There is the Padre!” Kim choked as bare-headed Father Victor sailed
down upon them from the veranda.
“Powers O’ Darkness below, O’Hara! How many more mixed friends do you
keep in Asia?” he cried, as Kim slid down and stood helplessly before
him.
“Good morning, Padre,” the Englishman said cheerily. “I know you by
reputation well enough. Meant to have come over and called before this.
I’m Creighton.”
“Of the Ethnological Survey?” said Father Victor. The Englishman
nodded. “Faith, I’m glad to meet ye then; an’ I owe you some thanks for
bringing back the boy.”
“No thanks to me, Padre. Besides, the boy wasn’t going away. You don’t
know old Mahbub Ali.” The horse-dealer sat impassive in the sunlight.
“You will when you have been in the station a month. He sells us all
our crocks. That boy is rather a curiosity. Can you tell me anything
about him?”
“Can I tell you?” puffed Father Victor. “You’ll be the one man that
could help me in my quandaries. Tell you! Powers o’ Darkness, I’m
bursting to tell someone who knows something o’ the native!”
A groom came round the corner. Colonel Creighton raised his voice,
speaking in Urdu. “Very good, Mahbub Ali, but what is the use of
telling me all those stories about the pony? Not one pice more than
three hundred and fifty rupees will I give.”
“The Sahib is a little hot and angry after riding,” the horse-dealer
returned, with the leer of a privileged jester. “Presently, he will see
my horse’s points more clearly. I will wait till he has finished his
talk with the Padre. I will wait under that tree.”
“Confound you!” The Colonel laughed. “That comes of looking at one of
Mahbub’s horses. He’s a regular old leech, Padre. Wait, then, if thou
hast so much time to spare, Mahbub. Now I’m at your service, Padre.
Where is the boy? Oh, he’s gone off to collogue with Mahbub. Queer sort
of boy. Might I ask you to send my mare round under cover?”
He dropped into a chair which commanded a clear view of Kim and Mahbub
Ali in conference beneath the tree. The Padre went indoors for
cheroots.
Creighton heard Kim say bitterly: “Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and
a snake before an harlot, and an harlot before a Pathan, Mahbub Ali.”
“That is all one.” The great red beard wagged solemnly. “Children
should not see a carpet on the loom till the pattern is made plain.
Believe me, Friend of all the World, I do thee great service. They will
not make a soldier of thee.”
“You crafty old sinner!” thought Creighton. “But you’re not far wrong.
That boy mustn’t be wasted if he is as advertised.”
“Excuse me half a minute,” cried the Padre from within, “but I’m
gettin’ the documents in the case.”
“If through me the favour of this bold and wise Colonel Sahib comes to
thee, and thou art raised to honour, what thanks wilt thou give Mahbub
Ali when thou art a man?”
“Nay, nay! I begged thee to let me take the Road again, where I should
have been safe; and thou hast sold me back to the English. What will
they give thee for blood-money?”
“A cheerful young demon!” The Colonel bit his cigar, and turned
politely to Father Victor.
“What are the letters that the fat priest is waving before the Colonel?
Stand behind the stallion as though looking at my bridle!” said Mahbub
Ali.
“A letter from my lama which he wrote from Jagadhir Road, saying that
he will pay three hundred rupees by the year for my schooling.”
“Oho! Is old Red Hat of that sort? At which school?”
“God knows. I think in Nucklao.”
“Yes. There is a big school there for the sons of Sahibs—and
half-Sahibs. I have seen it when I sell horses there. So the lama also
loved the Friend of all the World?”
“Ay; and _he_ did not tell lies, or return me to captivity.”
“Small wonder the Padre does not know how to unravel the thread. How
fast he talks to the Colonel Sahib!” Mahbub Ali chuckled. “By Allah!”
the keen eyes swept the veranda for an Instant—“thy lama has sent what
to me looks like a note of hand. I have had some few dealings in
_hoondies_. The Colonel Sahib is looking at it.”
“What good is all this to me?” said Kim wearily. “Thou wilt go away,
and they will return me to those empty rooms where there is no good
place to sleep and where the boys beat me.”
“I do not think that. Have patience, child. All Pathans are not
faithless—except in horseflesh.”
Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed, Father Victor talking energetically or
asking questions which the Colonel answered.
“Now I’ve told you everything that I know about the boy from beginnin
to end; and it’s a blessed relief to me. Did ye ever hear the like?”
“At any rate, the old man has sent the money. Gobind Sahai’s notes of
hand are good from here to China,” said the Colonel. “The more one
knows about natives the less can one say what they will or won’t do.”
“That’s consolin’—from the head of the Ethnological Survey. It’s this
mixture of Red Bulls and Rivers of Healing (poor heathen, God help
him!) an’ notes of hand and Masonic certificates. Are you a Mason, by
any chance?”
“By Jove, I am, now I come to think of it. That’s an additional
reason,” said the Colonel absently.
“I’m glad ye see a reason in it. But as I said, it’s the mixture o’
things that’s beyond me. An’ his prophesyin’ to our Colonel, sitting on
my bed with his little shimmy torn open showing his white skin; an’ the
prophecy comin’ true! They’ll cure all that nonsense at St Xavier’s,
eh?”
“Sprinkle him with holy water,” the Colonel laughed.
“On my word, I fancy I ought to sometimes. But I’m hoping he’ll be
brought up as a good Catholic. All that troubles me is what’ll happen
if the old beggar-man—”
“Lama, lama, my dear sir; and some of them are gentlemen in their own
country.”
“The lama, then, fails to pay next year. He’s a fine business head to
plan on the spur of the moment, but he’s bound to die some day. An’
takin’ a heathen’s money to give a child a Christian education—”
“But he said explicitly what he wanted. As soon as he knew the boy was
white he seems to have made his arrangements accordingly. I’d give a
month’s pay to hear how he explained it all at the Tirthankars’ Temple
at Benares. Look here, Padre, I don’t pretend to know much about
natives, but if he says he’ll pay, he’ll pay—dead or alive. I mean, his
heirs will assume the debt. My advice to you is, send the boy down to
Lucknow. If your Anglican Chaplain thinks you’ve stolen a march on
him—”
“Bad luck to Bennett! He was sent to the Front instead o’ me. Doughty
certified me medically unfit. I’ll excommunicate Doughty if he comes
back alive! Surely Bennett ought to be content with—”
“Glory, leaving you the religion. Quite so! As a matter of fact I don’t
think Bennett will mind. Put the blame on me. I—er—strongly recommend
sending the boy to St Xavier’s. He can go down on pass as a soldier’s
orphan, so the railway fare will be saved. You can buy him an outfit
from the Regimental subscription. The Lodge will be saved the expense
of his education, and that will put the Lodge in a good temper. It’s
perfectly easy. I’ve got to go down to Lucknow next week. I’ll look
after the boy on the way—give him in charge of my servants, and so on.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Not in the least. Don’t make that mistake. The lama has sent us money
for a definite end. We can’t very well return it. We shall have to do
as he says. Well, that’s settled, isn’t it? Shall we say that, Tuesday
next, you’ll hand him over to me at the night train south? That’s only
three days. He can’t do much harm in three days.”
“It’s a weight off my mind, but—this thing here?”—he waved the note of
hand—“I don’t know Gobind Sahai: or his bank, which may be a hole in a
wall.”
“_You_’ve never been a subaltern in debt. I’ll cash it if you like, and
send you the vouchers in proper order.”
“But with all your own work too! It’s askin’—”
“It’s not the least trouble indeed. You see, as an ethnologist, the
thing’s very interesting to me. I’d like to make a note of it for some
Government work that I’m doing. The transformation of a regimental
badge like your Red Bull into a sort of fetish that the boy follows is
very interesting.”
“But I can’t thank you enough.”
“There’s one thing you can do. All we Ethnological men are as jealous
as jackdaws of one another’s discoveries. They’re of no interest to
anyone but ourselves, of course, but you know what book-collectors are
like. Well, don’t say a word, directly or indirectly, about the Asiatic
side of the boy’s character—his adventures and his prophecy, and so on.
I’ll worm them out of the boy later on and—you see?”
“I do. Ye’ll make a wonderful account of it. Never a word will I say to
anyone till I see it in print.”