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

nights passed like bars of white and black, opening and shutting. I was not sick: I was but tired.”

“A lethargy that comes by right some few score years later. But it is done now.”

“Maharanee,” Kim began, but led by the look in her eye, changed it to the title of plain love⁠—“Mother, I owe my life to thee. How shall I make thanks? Ten thousand blessings upon thy house and⁠—”

“The house be unblessed!” (It is impossible to give exactly the old lady’s word.) “Thank the Gods as a priest if thou wilt, but thank me, if thou carest, as a son. Heavens above! Have I shifted thee and lifted thee and slapped and twisted thy ten toes to find texts flung at my head? Somewhere a mother must have borne thee to break her heart. What used thou to her⁠—son?”

“I had no mother, my mother,” said Kim. “She died, they tell me, when I was young.”

“Hai mai! Then none can say I have robbed her of any right if⁠—when thou takest the road again and this house is but one of a thousand used for shelter and forgotten, after an easy-flung blessing. No matter. I need no blessings, but⁠—but⁠—” She stamped her foot at the poor relation. “Take up the trays to the house. What is the good of stale food in the room, O woman of ill-omen?”

“I ha⁠—have borne a son in my time too, but he died,” whimpered the bowed sister-figure behind the chudder. “Thou knowest he died! I only waited for the order to take away the tray.”

“It is I that am the woman of ill-omen,” cried the old lady penitently. “We that go down to the chattris61 clutch hard at the bearers of the chattis.62 When one cannot dance in the festival one must e’en look out of the window, and grandmothering takes all a woman’s time. Thy master gives me all the charms I now desire for my daughter’s eldest, by reason⁠—is it?⁠—that he is wholly free from sin. The hakim is brought very low these days. He goes about poisoning my servants for lack of their betters.”

“What hakim, mother?”

“That very Dacca man who gave me the pill which rent me in three pieces. He cast up like a strayed camel a week ago, vowing that he and thou had been blood-brothers together up Kulu-way, and feigning great anxiety for thy health. He was very thin and hungry, so I gave orders to have him stuffed too⁠—him and his anxiety!”

“I would see him if he is here.”

“He eats five times a day, and lances boils for my hinds to save himself from an apoplexy. He is so full of anxiety for thy health that he sticks to the cookhouse door and stays himself with scraps. He will keep. We shall never get rid of him.”

“Send him here, mother”⁠—the twinkle returned to Kim’s eye for a flash⁠—“and I will try.”

“I’ll send him, but to chase him off is an ill turn. At least he had the sense to fish the Holy One out of the brook; thus, as the Holy One did not say, acquiring merit.”

“He is a very wise hakim. Send him, mother.”

“Priest praising priest? A miracle! If he is any friend of thine (ye squabbled at your last meeting) I’ll hale him here with horse-ropes and⁠—and give him a caste-dinner afterwards, my son⁠ ⁠… Get up and see the world! This lying abed is the mother of seventy devils⁠ ⁠… my son! my son!”

She trotted forth to raise a typhoon off the cookhouse, and almost on her shadow rolled in the Babu, robed as to the shoulders like a Roman emperor, jowled like Titus, bareheaded, with new patent-leather shoes, in highest condition of fat, exuding joy and salutations.

“By Jove, Mister O’Hara, but I am jolly-glad to see you. I will kindly shut the door. It is a pity you are sick. Are you very sick?”

“The papers⁠—the papers from the kilta. The maps and the murasla!” He held out the key impatiently; for the present need on his soul was to get rid of the loot.

“You are quite right. That is correct Departmental view to take. You have got everything?”

“All that was handwritten in the kilta I took. The rest I threw down the hill.” He could hear the key’s grate in the lock, the sticky pull of the slow-rending oilskin, and a quick shuffling of papers. He had been annoyed out of all reason by the knowledge that they lay below him through the sick idle days⁠—a burden incommunicable. For that reason the blood tingled through his body, when Hurree, skipping elephantinely, shook hands again.

“This is fine! This is finest! Mister O’Hara! you have⁠—ha! ha! swiped the whole bag of tricks⁠—locks, stocks, and barrels. They told me it was eight months’ work gone up the spouts! By Jove, how they beat me!⁠ ⁠… Look, here is the letter from Hilás!” He intoned a line or two of Court Persian, which is the language of authorized and unauthorized diplomacy. “Mister Rajah Sahib has just about put his foot in the holes. He will have to explain offeecially how the deuce-an’-all he is writing love-letters to the Czar. And they are very clever maps⁠ ⁠… and there is three or four Prime Ministers of these parts implicated by the correspondence. By Gad, sar! The British Government will change the succession in Hilás and Bunár, and nominate new heirs to the throne. ‘Trea-son most base’⁠ ⁠… but you do not understand? Eh?”

“Are they in thy hands?” said Kim. It was all he cared for.

“Just you jolly-well bet yourself they are.” He stowed the entire trove about his body, as only Orientals can. “They are going up to the office, too. The old lady thinks I am permanent fixture here, but I shall go away with these straight off⁠—immediately. Mr. Lurgan will be proud man. You are offeecially