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

“Is it not enough I have saved thy neck?”

“Not if the work be left unfinished. Did never the healer of sick pearls tell thee so? Comes another Sahib! Ah!”

This was a tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police⁠—belt, helmet, polished spurs and all⁠—strutting and twirling his dark moustache.

“What fools are these Police Sahibs!” said Kim genially.

E.23 glanced up under his eyelids. “It is well said,” he muttered in a changed voice. “I go to drink water. Keep my place.”

He blundered out almost into the Englishman’s arms, and was bad-worded in clumsy Urdu.

“Tum mut? You drunk? You mustn’t bang about as though Delhi station belonged to you, my friend.”

E.23, not moving a muscle of his countenance, answered with a stream of the filthiest abuse, at which Kim naturally rejoiced. It reminded him of the drummer-boys and the barrack-sweepers at Umballa in the terrible time of his first schooling.

“My good fool,” the Englishman drawled. “Nickle-jao! Go back to your carriage.”

Step by step, withdrawing deferentially and dropping his voice, the yellow Saddhu clomb back to the carriage, cursing the D.S.P. to remotest posterity, by⁠—here Kim almost jumped⁠—by the curse of the Queen’s Stone, by the writing under the Queen’s Stone, and by an assortment of Gods with wholly, new names.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,”⁠—the Englishman flushed angrily⁠—“but it’s some piece of blasted impertinence. Come out of that!”

E.23, affecting to misunderstand, gravely produced his ticket, which the Englishman wrenched angrily from his hand.

“Oh, zoolum! What oppression!” growled the Jat from his corner. “All for the sake of a jest too.” He had been grinning at the freedom of the Saddhu’s tongue. “Thy charms do not work well today, Holy One!”

The Saddhu followed the policeman, fawning and supplicating. The ruck of passengers, busy, with their babies and their bundles, had not noticed the affair. Kim slipped out behind him; for it flashed through his head that he had heard this angry, stupid Sahib discoursing loud personalities to an old lady near Umballa three years ago.

“It is well,” the Saddhu whispered, jammed in the calling, shouting, bewildered press⁠—a Persian greyhound between his feet and a cageful of yelling hawks under charge of a Rajput falconer in the small of his back. “He has gone now to send word of the letter which I hid. They told me he was in Peshawur. I might have known that he is like the crocodile⁠—always at the other ford. He has saved me from present calamity, but I owe my life to thee.”

“Is he also one of Us?” Kim ducked under a Mewar camel-driver’s greasy armpit and cannoned off a covey of jabbering Sikh matrons.

“Not less than the greatest. We are both fortunate! I will make report to him of what thou hast done. I am safe under his protection.”

He bored through the edge of the crowd besieging the carriages, and squatted by the bench near the telegraph-office.

“Return, or they take thy place! Have no fear for the work, brother⁠—or my life. Thou hast given me breathing-space, and Strickland Sahib has pulled me to land. We may work together at the Game yet. Farewell!”

Kim hurried to his carriage: elated, bewildered, but a little nettled in that he had no key to the secrets about him.

“I am only a beginner at the Game, that is sure. I could not have leaped into safety as did the Saddhu. He knew it was darkest under the lamp. I could not have thought to tell news under pretence of cursing⁠ ⁠… and how clever was the Sahib! No matter, I saved the life of one⁠ ⁠… Where is the Kamboh gone, Holy One?” he whispered, as he took his seat in the now crowded compartment.

“A fear gripped him,” the lama replied, with a touch of tender malice. “He saw thee change the Mahratta to a Saddhu in the twinkling of an eye, as a protection against evil. That shook him. Then he saw the Saddhu fall sheer into the hands of the polis⁠—all the effect of thy art. Then he gathered up his son and fled; for he said that thou didst change a quiet trader into an impudent bandier of words with the Sahibs, and he feared a like fate. Where is the Saddhu?”

“With the polis,” said Kim⁠ ⁠… “Yet I saved the Kamboh’s child.”

The lama snuffed blandly.

“Ah, chela, see how thou art overtaken! Thou didst cure the Kamboh’s child solely to acquire merit. But thou didst put a spell on the Mahratta with prideful workings⁠—I watched thee⁠—and with sidelong glances to bewilder an old old man and a foolish farmer: whence calamity and suspicion.”

Kim controlled himself with an effort beyond his years. Not more than any other youngster did he like to eat dirt or to be misjudged, but he saw himself in a cleft stick. The train rolled out of Delhi into the night.

“It is true,” he murmured. “Where I have offended thee I have done wrong.”

“It is more, chela. Thou hast loosed an Act upon the world, and as a stone thrown into a pool so spread the consequences thou canst not tell how far.”

This ignorance was well both for Kim’s vanity and for the lama’s peace of mind, when we think that there was then being handed in at Simla a code-wire reporting the arrival of E.23 at Delhi, and, more important, the whereabouts of a letter he had been commissioned to⁠—abstract. Incidentally, an overzealous policeman had arrested, on charge of murder done in a far southern State, a horribly indignant Ajmir cotton-broker, who was explaining himself to a Mr. Strickland on Delhi platform, while E.23 was paddling through byways into the locked heart of Delhi city. In two hours several telegrams had reached the angry minister of a southern State reporting that all trace of a somewhat bruised Mahratta had been lost; and by the time the leisurely train halted at Saharunpore the last ripple of the stone Kim had helped to heave was lapping against