Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

grip, rolled over again, and silently hauled Kim to his own tent. The Mavericks were incurable practical jokers; and it occurred to the Englishman that silence was best till he had made complete inquiry.

“Why, it’s a boy!” he said, as he drew his prize under the light of the tent-pole lantern, then shaking him severely cried: “What were you doing? You’re a thief. Choor? Mallum?” His Hindustani was very limited, and the ruffled and disgusted Kim intended to keep to the character laid down for him. As he recovered his breath he was inventing a beautifully plausible tale of his relations to some mess-scullion, and at the same time keeping a keen eye on and a little under the Chaplain’s left armpit. The chance came; he ducked for the doorway, but a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck, snapping the amulet-string and closing on the amulet.

“Give it me. O, give it me. Is it lost? Give me the papers.”

The words were in English⁠—the tinny, saw-cut English of the native-bred, and the Chaplain jumped.

“A scapular,” said he, opening his hand. “No, some sort of heathen charm. Why⁠—why, do you speak English? Little boys who steal are beaten. You know that?”

“I do not⁠—I did not steal.” Kim danced in agony like a terrier at a lifted stick. “Oh, give it me. It is my charm. Do not thieve it from me.”

The Chaplain took no heed, but, going to the tent door, called aloud. A fattish, clean-shaven man appeared.

“I want your advice, Father Victor,” said Bennett. “I found this boy in the dark outside the mess-tent. Ordinarily, I should have chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief. But it seems he talks English, and he attaches some sort of value to a charm round his neck. I thought perhaps you might help me.”

Between himself and the Roman Catholic Chaplain of the Irish contingent lay, as Bennett believed, an unbridgeable gulf, but it was noticeable that whenever the Church of England dealt with a human problem she was very likely to call in the Church of Rome. Bennett’s official abhorrence of the Scarlet Woman and all her ways was only equalled by his private respect for Father Victor.

“A thief talking English, is it? Let’s look at his charm. No, it’s not a scapular, Bennett.” He held out his hand.

“But have we any right to open it? A sound whipping⁠—”

“I did not thieve,” protested Kim. “You have hit me kicks all over my body. Now give me my charm and I will go away.”

“Not quite so fast. We’ll look first,” said Father Victor, leisurely rolling out poor Kimball O’Hara’s ne varietur parchment, his clearance-certificate, and Kim’s baptismal certificate. On this last O’Hara⁠—with some confused idea that he was doing wonders for his son⁠—had scrawled scores of times: “Look after the boy. Please look after the boy”⁠—signing his name and regimental number in full.

“Powers of Darkness below!” said Father Victor, passing all over to Mr. Bennett. “Do you know what these things are?”

“Yes.” said Kim. “They are mine, and I want to go away.”

“I do not quite understand,” said Mr. Bennett. “He probably brought them on purpose. It may be a begging trick of some kind.”

“I never saw a beggar less anxious to stay with his company, then. There’s the makings of a gay mystery here. Ye believe in Providence, Bennett?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, I believe in miracles, so it comes to the same thing. Powers of Darkness! Kimball O’Hara! And his son! But then he’s a native, and I saw Kimball married myself to Annie Shott. How long have you had these things, boy?”

“Ever since I was a little baby.”

Father Victor stepped forward quickly and opened the front of Kim’s upper garment. “You see, Bennett, he’s not very black. What’s your name?”

“Kim.”

“Or Kimball?”

“Perhaps. Will you let me go away?”

“What else?”

“They call me Kim Rishti Ke. That is Kim of the Rishti.”

“What is that⁠—‘Rishti’?”

“Eye-rishti⁠—that was the Regiment⁠—my father’s.”

“Irish⁠—oh, I see.”

“Yess. That was how my father told me. My father, he has lived.”

“Has lived where?”

“Has lived. Of course he is dead⁠—gone-out.”

“Oh! That’s your abrupt way of putting it, is it?”

Bennett interrupted. “It is possible I have done the boy an injustice. He is certainly white, though evidently neglected. I am sure I must have bruised him. I do not think spirits⁠—”

“Get him a glass of sherry, then, and let him squat on the cot. Now, Kim,” continued Father Victor, “no one is going to hurt you. Drink that down and tell us about yourself. The truth, if you’ve no objection.”

Kim coughed a little as he put down the empty glass, and considered. This seemed a time for caution and fancy. Small boys who prowl about camps are generally turned out after a whipping. But he had received no stripes; the amulet was evidently working in his favour, and it looked as though the Umballa horoscope and the few words that he could remember of his father’s maunderings fitted in most miraculously. Else why did the fat padre seem so impressed, and why the glass of hot yellow drink from the lean one?

“My father, he is dead in Lahore city since I was very little. The woman, she kept kabarri shop near where the hire-carriages are.” Kim began with a plunge, not quite sure how far the truth would serve him.

“Your mother?”

“No!”⁠—with a gesture of disgust. “She went out when I was born. My father, he got these papers from the Jadoo-Gher⁠—what do you call that?” (Bennett nodded) “because he was in good-standing. What do you call that?” (again Bennett nodded). “My father told me that. He said, too, and also the Brahmin who made the drawing in the dust at Umballa two days ago, he said, that I shall find a Red Bull on a green field and that the Bull shall help me.”

“A phenomenal little liar,” muttered Bennett.

“Powers of Darkness below, what a country!” murmured Father Victor. “Go on, Kim.”

“I did not thieve.