Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Kim squatted native-fashion on the cushions of that upper room. “A little dyestuff and three yards of cloth to help out a jest. Is it much to ask?”

“Who is she? Thou art full young, as Sahibs go, for this devilry.”

“Oh, she? She is the daughter of a certain schoolmaster of a regiment in the cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their wall in these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener’s boy. Old men are very jealous.”

“That is true. Hold thy face still while I dab on the juice.”

“Not too black, Naikan. I would not appear to her as a hubshi.”33

“Oh, love makes nought of these things. And how old is she?”

“Twelve years, I think,” said the shameless Kim. “Spread it also on the breast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me, and if I am piebald⁠—” he laughed.

The girl worked busily, dabbing a twist of cloth into a little saucer of brown dye that holds longer than any walnut-juice.

“Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head is all unshaved! And he will surely knock off my turban.”

“I am not a barber, but I will make shift. Thou wast born to be a breaker of hearts! All this disguise for one evening? Remember, the stuff does not wash away.” She shook with laughter till her bracelets and anklets jingled. “But who is to pay me for this? Huneefa herself could not have given thee better stuff.”

“Trust in the Gods, my sister,” said Kim gravely, screwing his face round as the stain dried. “Besides, hast thou ever helped to paint a Sahib thus before?”

“Never indeed. But a jest is not money.”

“It is worth much more.”

“Child, thou art beyond all dispute the most shameless son of Shaitan that I have ever known to take up a poor girl’s time with this play, and then to say: ‘Is not the jest enough?’ Thou wilt go very far in this world.” She gave the dancing-girls’ salutation in mockery.

“All one. Make haste and rough-cut my head.” Kim shifted from foot to foot, his eyes ablaze with mirth as he thought of the fat days before him. He gave the girl four annas, and ran down the stairs in the likeness of a low-caste Hindu boy⁠—perfect in every detail. A cookshop was his next point of call, where he feasted in extravagance and greasy luxury.

On Lucknow station platform he watched young De Castro, all covered with prickly-heat, get into a second-class compartment. Kim patronized a third, and was the life and soul of it. He explained to the company that he was assistant to a juggler who had left him behind sick with fever, and that he would pick up his master at Umballa. As the occupants of the carriage changed, he varied this tale, or adorned it with all the shoots of a budding fancy, the more rampant for being held off native speech so long. In all India that night was no human being so joyful as Kim. At Umballa he got out and headed eastward, plashing over the sodden fields to the village where the old soldier lived.

About this time Colonel Creighton at Simla was advised from Lucknow by wire that young O’Hara had disappeared. Mahbub Ali was in town selling horses, and to him the Colonel confided the affair one morning cantering round Annandale racecourse.

“Oh, that is nothing,” said the horse-dealer. “Men are like horses. At certain times they need salt, and if that salt is not in the mangers they will lick it up from the earth. He has gone back to the Road again for a while. The madrissah wearied him. I knew it would. Another time, I will take him upon the Road myself. Do not be troubled, Creighton Sahib. It is as though a polo-pony, breaking loose, ran out to learn the game alone.”

“Then he is not dead, think you?”

“Fever might kill him. I do not fear for the boy otherwise. A monkey does not fall among trees.”

Next morning, on the same course, Mahbub’s stallion ranged alongside the Colonel.

“It is as I had thought,” said the horse-dealer. “He has come through Umballa at least, and there he has written a letter to me, having learned in the bazaar that I was here.”

“Read,” said the Colonel, with a sigh of relief. It was absurd that a man of his position should take an interest in a little country-bred vagabond; but the Colonel remembered the conversation in the train, and often in the past few months had caught himself thinking of the queer, silent, self-possessed boy. His evasion, of course, was the height of insolence, but it argued some resource and nerve.

Mahbub’s eyes twinkled as he reined out into the centre of the cramped little plain, where none could come near unseen.

“ ‘The Friend of the Stars, who is the Friend of all the World⁠—’ ”

“What is this?”

“A name we give him in Lahore city. ‘The Friend of all the World takes leave to go to his own places. He will come back upon the appointed day. Let the box and the bedding-roll be sent for; and if there has been a fault, let the Hand of Friendship turn aside the Whip of Calamity.’ There is yet a little more, but⁠—”

“No matter, read.”

“ ‘Certain things are not known to those who eat with forks. It is better to eat with both hands for a while. Speak soft words to those who do not understand this that the return may be propitious.’ Now the manner in which that was cast is, of course, the work of the letter-writer, but see how wisely the boy has devised the matter of it so that no hint is given except to those who know!”

“Is this the Hand of Friendship to avert the Whip of Calamity?” laughed the Colonel.

“See how wise is the boy. He would go back to