Kim by Rudyard Kipling (best reads of all time .txt) 📖

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 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,”