Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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âAnd his name?â
âThat I did not ask. Is he not my disciple?â
âHis countryâ âhis raceâ âhis village? Mussalmanâ âSikhâ âHinduâ âJainâ âlow caste or high?â
âWhy should I ask? There is neither high nor low in the Middle Way. If he is my chelaâ âdoesâ âwillâ âcan anyone take him from me? for, look you, without him I shall not find my River.â He wagged his head solemnly.
âNone shall take him from thee. Go, sit among my Baltis,â said Mahbub Ali, and the lama drifted off, soothed by the promise.
âIs he not quite mad?â said Kim, coming forward to the light again. âWhy should I lie to thee, Hajji?â
Mahbub puffed his hookah in silence. Then he began, almost whispering: âUmballa is on the road to Benaresâ âif indeed ye two go there.â
âTck! Tck! I tell thee he does not know how to lieâ âas we two know.â
âAnd if thou wilt carry a message for me as far as Umballa, I will give thee money. It concerns a horseâ âa white stallion which I have sold to an officer upon the last time I returned from the Passes. But thenâ âstand nearer and hold up hands as beggingâ âthe pedigree of the white stallion was not fully established, and that officer, who is now at Umballa, bade me make it clear.â (Mahbub here described the horse and the appearance of the officer.) âSo the message to that officer will be: âThe pedigree of the white stallion is fully established.â By this will he know that thou comest from me. He will then say âWhat proof hast thou?â and thou wilt answer: âMahbub Ali has given me the proof.âââ
âAnd all for the sake of a white stallion,â said Kim, with a giggle, his eyes aflame.
âThat pedigree I will give thee nowâ âin my own fashion and some hard words as well.â A shadow passed behind Kim, and a feeding camel. Mahbub Ali raised his voice.
âAllah! Art thou the only beggar in the city? Thy mother is dead. Thy father is dead. So is it with all of them. Well, wellâ ââ
He turned as feeling on the floor beside him and tossed a flap of soft, greasy Mussalman bread to the boy. âGo and lie down among my horse-boys for tonightâ âthou and the lama. Tomorrow I may give thee service.â
Kim slunk away, his teeth in the bread, and, as he expected, he found a small wad of folded tissue-paper wrapped in oilskin, with three silver rupeesâ âenormous largesse. He smiled and thrust money and paper into his leather amulet-case. The lama, sumptuously fed by Mahbubâs Baltis, was already asleep in a corner of one of the stalls. Kim lay down beside him and laughed. He knew he had rendered a service to Mahbub Ali, and not for one little minute did he believe the tale of the stallionâs pedigree.
But Kim did not suspect that Mahbub Ali, known as one of the best horse-dealers in the Punjab, a wealthy and enterprising trader, whose caravans penetrated far and far into the Back of Beyond, was registered in one of the locked books of the Indian Survey Department as C25 1B. Twice or thrice yearly C25 would send in a little story, baldly told but most interesting, and generallyâ âit was checked by the statements of R17 and M4â âquite true. It concerned all manner of out-of-the-way mountain principalities, explorers of nationalities other than English, and the gun-tradeâ âwas, in brief, a small portion of that vast mass of âinformation receivedâ on which the Indian Government acts. But, recently, five confederated Kings, who had no business to confederate, had been informed by a kindly Northern Power that there was a leakage of news from their territories into British India. So those Kingsâ Prime Ministers were seriously annoyed and took steps, after the Oriental fashion. They suspected, among many others, the bullying, red-bearded horse-dealer whose caravans ploughed through their fastnesses belly-deep in snow. At least, his caravan that season had been ambushed and shot at twice on the way down, when Mahbubâs men accounted for three strange ruffians who might, or might not, have been hired for the job. Therefore Mahbub had avoided halting at the insalubrious city of Peshawur, and had come through without stop to Lahore, where, knowing his country-people, he anticipated curious developments.
And there was that on Mahbub Ali which he did not wish to keep an hour longer than was necessaryâ âa wad of closely folded tissue-paper, wrapped in oilskinâ âan impersonal, unaddressed statement, with five microscopic pinholes in one corner, that most scandalously betrayed the five confederated Kings, the sympathetic Northern Power, a Hindu banker in Peshawur, a firm of gun-makers in Belgium, and an important, semi-independent Mohammedan ruler to the south. This last was R17âs work, which Mahbub had picked up beyond the Dora Pass and was carrying in for R17, who, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, could not leave his post of observation. Dynamite was milky and innocuous beside that report of C25; and even an Oriental, with an Orientalâs views of the value of time, could see that the sooner it was in the proper hands the better. Mahbub had no particular desire to die by violence, because two or three family blood-feuds across the Border hung unfinished on his hands, and when these scores were cleared he intended to settle down as a more or less virtuous citizen. He had never passed the serai gate since his arrival two days ago, but had been ostentatious in sending telegrams to Bombay, where he banked some of his money; to Delhi, where a sub-partner of his own clan was selling horses to the agent of a Rajputana state; and to Umballa, where an Englishman was excitedly demanding the pedigree of a white stallion. The public letter-writer, who knew English, composed excellent telegrams, such as: âCreighton, Laurel Bank, Umballa. Horse is Arabian as already advised. Sorrowful delayed pedigree which am translating.â And
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