Kim, Rudyard Kipling [bill gates books to read .txt] 📗

tale one told to me⁠—for a jest belike. But I will seek the Bull about Umballa, and thou canst look for thy River and rest from the clatter of the train.”

“It may be that the Bull knows⁠—that he is sent to guide us both.” said the lama, hopefully as a child. Then to the company, indicating Kim: “This one was sent to me but yesterday. He is not, I think, of this world.”

“Beggars aplenty have I met, and holy men to boot, but never such a yogi nor such a disciple,” said the woman.

Her husband touched his forehead lightly with one finger and smiled. But the next time the lama would eat they took care to give him of their best.

And at last⁠—tired, sleepy, and dusty⁠—they reached Umballa City Station.

“We abide here upon a lawsuit,” said the cultivator’s wife to Kim. “We lodge with my man’s cousin’s younger brother. There is room also in the courtyard for thy yogi and for thee. Will⁠—will he give me a blessing?”

“O holy man! A woman with a heart of gold gives us lodging for the night. It is a kindly land, this land of the South. See how we have been helped since the dawn!”

The lama bowed his head in benediction.

“To fill my cousin’s younger brother’s house with wastrels⁠—” the husband began, as he shouldered his heavy bamboo staff.

“Thy cousin’s younger brother owes my father’s cousin something yet on his daughter’s marriage-feast,” said the woman crisply. “Let him put their food to that account. The yogi will beg, I doubt not.”

“Ay, I beg for him,” said Kim, anxious only to get the lama under shelter for the night, that he might seek Mahbub Ali’s Englishman and deliver himself of the white stallion’s pedigree.

“Now,” said he, when the lama had come to an anchor in the inner courtyard of a decent Hindu house behind the cantonments, “I go away for a while⁠—to⁠—to buy us victual in the bazaar. Do not stray abroad till I return.”

“Thou wilt return? Thou wilt surely return?” The old man caught at his wrist. “And thou wilt return in this very same shape? Is it too late to look tonight for the River?”

“Too late and too dark. Be comforted. Think how far thou art on the road⁠—an hundred kos15 from Lahore already.”

“Yea⁠—and farther from my monastery. Alas! It is a great and terrible world.”

Kim stole out and away, as unremarkable a figure as ever carried his own and a few score thousand other folk’s fate slung round his neck. Mahbub Ali’s directions left him little doubt of the house in which his Englishman lived; and a groom, bringing a dogcart home from the Club, made him quite sure. It remained only to identify his man, and Kim slipped through the garden hedge and hid in a clump of plumed grass close to the veranda. The house blazed with lights, and servants moved about tables dressed with flowers, glass, and silver. Presently forth came an Englishman, dressed in black and white, humming a tune. It was too dark to see his face, so Kim, beggar-wise, tried an old experiment.

“Protector of the Poor!”

The man backed towards the voice.

“Mahbub Ali says⁠—”

“Hah! What says Mahbub Ali?” He made no attempt to look for the speaker, and that showed Kim that he knew.

“The pedigree of the white stallion is fully established.”

“What proof is there?” The Englishman switched at the rose-hedge in the side of the drive.

“Mahbub Ali has given me this proof.” Kim flipped the wad of folded paper into the air, and it fell in the path beside the man, who put his foot on it as a gardener came round the corner. When the servant passed he picked it up, dropped a rupee⁠—Kim could hear the clink⁠—and strode into the house, never turning round. Swiftly Kim took up the money; but for all his training, he was Irish enough by birth to reckon silver the least part of any game. What he desired was the visible effect of action; so, instead of slinking away, he lay close in the grass and wormed nearer to the house.

He saw⁠—Indian bungalows are open through and through⁠—the Englishman return to a small dressing-room, in a corner of the veranda, that was half office, littered with papers and despatch-boxes, and sit down to study Mahbub Ali’s message. His face, by the full ray of the kerosene lamp, changed and darkened, and Kim, used as every beggar must be to watching countenances, took good note.

“Will! Will, dear!” called a woman’s voice. “You ought to be in the drawing-room. They’ll be here in a minute.”

The man still read intently.

“Will!” said the voice, five minutes later. “He’s come. I can hear the troopers in the drive.”

The man dashed out bareheaded as a big landau with four native troopers behind it halted at the veranda, and a tall, black haired man, erect as an arrow, swung out, preceded by a young officer who laughed pleasantly.

Flat on his belly lay Kim, almost touching the high wheels. His man and the black stranger exchanged two sentences.

“Certainly, sir,” said the young officer promptly. “Everything waits while a horse is concerned.”

“We shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” said Kim’s man. “You can do the honours⁠—keep ’em amused, and all that.”

“Tell one of the troopers to wait,” said the tall man, and they both passed into the dressing-room together as the landau rolled away. Kim saw their heads bent over Mahbub Ali’s message, and heard the voices⁠—one low and deferential, the other sharp and decisive.

“It isn’t a question of weeks. It is a question of days⁠—hours almost,” said the elder. “I’d been expecting it for some time, but this”⁠—he tapped Mahbub Ali’s paper⁠—“clinches it. Grogan’s dining here tonight, isn’t he?”

“Yes, sir, and Macklin too.”

“Very good. I’ll speak to them myself. The matter will be referred to the Council, of course, but this is a case where one is justified in assuming that we take action at once. Warn the Pined and Peshawar