Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

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 bazaar 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 chābuk sawai.32 It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindi 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