Kim by Rudyard Kipling (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕

which thou shalt write. Never was such a tale. But I am in no haste. Another writer will serve me. Umballa city is as full of them as is Lahore.”

“Four annas,” said the writer, sitting down and spreading his cloth in the shade of a deserted barrack-wing.

Mechanically Kim squatted beside him⁠—squatted as only the natives can⁠—in spite of the abominable clinging trousers.

The writer regarded him sideways.

“That is the price to ask of Sahibs,” said Kim. “Now fix me a true one.”

“An anna and a half. How do I know, having written the letter, that thou wilt not run away?”

“I must not go beyond this tree, and there is also the stamp to be considered.”

“I get no commission on the price of the stamp. Once more, what manner of white boy art thou?”

“That shall be said in the letter, which is to Mahbub Ali, the horse-dealer in the Kashmir Serai, at Lahore. He is my friend.”

“Wonder on wonder!” murmured the letter-writer, dipping a reed in the inkstand. “To be written in Hindi?”

“Assuredly. To Mahbub Ali then. Begin! I have come down with the old man as far as Umballa in the train. At Umballa I carried the news of the bay mare’s pedigree.” After what he had seen in the garden, he was not going to write of white stallions.

“Slower a little. What has a bay mare to do⁠ ⁠… Is it Mahbub Ali, the great dealer?”

“Who else? I have been in his service. Take more ink. Again. As the order was, so I did it. We then went on foot towards Benares, but on the third day we found a certain regiment. Is that down?”

“Ay, pulton,” murmured the writer, all ears.

“I went into their camp and was caught, and by means of the charm about my neck, which thou knowest, it was established that I was the son of some man in the regiment: according to the prophecy of the Red Bull, which thou knowest was common talk of our bazaar.” Kim waited for this shaft to sink into the letter-writer’s heart, cleared his throat, and continued: “A priest clothed me and gave me a new name⁠ ⁠… One priest, however, was a fool. The clothes are very heavy, but I am a Sahib and my heart is heavy too. They send me to a school and beat me. I do not like the air and water here. Come then and help me, Mahbub Ali, or send me some money, for I have not sufficient to pay the writer who writes this.”

“ ‘Who writes this.’ It is my own fault that I was tricked. Thou art as clever as Husain Bux that forged the Treasury stamps at Nucklao. But what a tale! What a tale! Is it true by any chance?”

“It does not profit to tell lies to Mahbub Ali. It is better to help his friends by lending them a stamp. When the money comes I will repay.”

The writer grunted doubtfully, but took a stamp out of his desk, sealed the letter, handed it over to Kim, and departed. Mahbub Ali’s was a name of power in Umballa.

“That is the way to win a good account with the Gods,” Kim shouted after him.

“Pay me twice over when the money comes,” the man cried over his shoulder.

“What was you bukkin’ to that nigger about?” said the drummer-boy when Kim returned to the veranda. “I was watchin’ you.”

“I was only talkin’ to him.”

“You talk the same as a nigger, don’t you?”

“No-ah! No-ah! I onlee speak a little. What shall we do now?”

“The bugles’ll go for dinner in arf a minute. My Gawd! I wish I’d gone up to the Front with the Regiment. It’s awful doin’ nothin’ but school down ’ere. Don’t you ’ate it?”

“Oah yess!”

“I’d run away if I knew where to go to, but, as the men say, in this bloomin’ Injia you’re only a prisoner at large. You can’t desert without bein’ took back at once. I’m fair sick of it.”

“You have been in Be⁠—England?”

“W’y, I only come out last troopin’ season with my mother. I should think I ’ave been in England. What a ignorant little beggar you are! You was brought up in the gutter, wasn’t you?”

“Oah yess. Tell me something about England. My father he came from there.”

Though he would not say so, Kim of course disbelieved every word the drummer-boy spoke about the Liverpool suburb which was his England. It passed the heavy time till dinner⁠—a most unappetizing meal served to the boys and a few invalids in a corner of a barrack-room. But that he had written to Mahbub Ali, Kim would have been almost depressed. The indifference of native crowds he was used to; but this strong loneliness among white men preyed on him. He was grateful when, in the course of the afternoon, a big soldier took him over to Father Victor, who lived in another wing across another dusty parade-ground. The priest was reading an English letter written in purple ink. He looked at Kim more curiously than ever.

“An’ how do you like it, my son, as far as you’ve gone? Not much, eh? It must be hard⁠—very hard on a wild animal. Listen now. I’ve an amazin’ epistle from your friend.”

“Where is he? Is he well? Oah! If he knows to write me letters, it is all right.”

“You’re fond of him then?”

“Of course I am fond of him. He was fond of me.”

“It seems so by the look of this. He can’t write English, can he?”

“Oah no. Not that I know, but of course he found a letter-writer who can write English verree well, and so he wrote. I do hope you understand.”

“That accounts for it. D’you know anything about his money affairs?” Kim’s face showed that he did not.

“How can I tell?”

“That’s what I’m askin’. Now listen if you can make head or tail o’ this. We’ll skip the first part⁠ ⁠… It’s written from Jagadhir Road⁠ ⁠… ‘Sitting on wayside in grave meditation, trusting to