KIM.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue XXIV, 15 June 1901, Page 1132

KIM.

"COPYRIGHT. 1901. IN THE U.S.A. BY RUDYARD KIPLING. ALL RIGHTS STRICTLY RESERVED.”

By

RUDYARD KIPLING.

CHAPTER 11. (continued.) The lama fell back on Urdu, remembering that he was in a strange land. “Hear the tale of the arrow which our Lord loosed from the bow.” he said. This was much more to their taste, and they listened curiously while he told it. “Now, O people of Hind, I go to seek that River. Know ye aught that may guide me, for we be all men and women in evil ease.” “There is Gunga —and Gunga alone —who washes away sin,” ran the murmur round the carriage. “Though past question we have good Gods Jullundur-way,” said the cultivator’s wife, looking out of window. “See how they have blessed the crops.” “To search every river in the Punjab is no small matter,” said her husband. “For me. a stream that leaves good silt on my land suffices, and I thank Bhumia. the God of the Homestead.” He shrugged one knotted, bronzed shoulder. "Think you our Lord came so far north?” said the lama, turning to Kim.

"It may be,” Kim replied soothingly, as he spat red pan juice on the floor. "Tile last of the Great Ones,” said the Sikh, with authority, “was Sikander Julkarn (Alexander the Great). He paved the streets of Jullunder and built a great tank near Umballa. That pavement holds to this day, and the tank is there also. I never heard of thv God."

"Let thy hair grow long and talk Punjabi." said the young soldier, jestingly to Kim, quoting a Northern proverb. "That is all that makes a Sikh.” But he did not say this very loud. The lama sighed and shrunk into himself, a dingy, shapeless mass. In the pauses of their talk they could hear the low droning—“Om mane pudme hum! Om mane pudme hum!”—and the thick elick of the wooden rosary beads.

"It irks me,” he said at last. “The speed and the clatter irk me. Moreover, my chela. I think that maybe we have overpassed that River.” "Peace, peace,” said Kim. “Was not the river near Benares? We are yet far from that place.” "But. if our Lord came north, it may be any one of these little ones that we have run across.” "I do not know.” "Hut thou wast sent to me —wast thou sent to me?—for the merit I had acquired over yonder at Suchz.en. From beside the cannon didt thou eome —bearing two faces—and two garbs.” "Peace. One must not speak of these things here,” whispered Kim. “There was but one of me. Think again and thou wilt remember. A boy—a Hindu boy—by the great green cannon.” "Hut was there not also an Englishman with a white beard—sitting among images—who himself made more sure my assurance of the River of the Arrow?” "He—we—went to the Ajaib-Gher in Lahore to pray before the gods there.” Kim explained to the openly listening company. “And the Sahib of the Wonder House talked to him—yes. this is truth—as a brother. He is a very holy man from far beyond the hills. Rest thou. In time we come to Umballa.” "But my River—the River of my healing?” "And then, if it please thee, we will go hunting for that River on foot. So that we miss nothing— not even a little rivulet in a field side.” "But thou hast a Search of thine own?” The lama —very pleased that he remembered so well—sat bolt upright. "Ay." said Kim. humouring him. The boy was entirely happy to be out chewing pan ami seeing new people in the great good tempered world. "It was a bull —a Red Bull that shall eome and help thee—and carry thee—whither? I have forgotten. A Red Bull on a green field, was it not?” "Nav, it will carry me nowhere." said

Kim. "It is but a tale I told thee.” "What is this?” the cultivator’s wife leaned forward, her bracelets clinking on her arm. “Do ye both dream dreams? A Red Bull on a green field, that shall carry thee to the Heavens—or what? Was it a vision? Did one make a prophecy? We have a Red Bull in our village behind Jullundur city, and he grazes by choice in the very- greenest of our fields.” “Give a woman an old wife’s tale and a weaver-bird a leaf and a thread, they will weave wonderful things,” said the Sikh. “All holy men dream dreams, and by following holy- men their disciples attain that power.” “A Red Bull on a green field, was it?” the lama repeated. “In a former life it may be thou hast acquired merit, and the Bull will come to reward thee.” “Nay—nay—it was but a 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 a plenty 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 their best. And at last—tired, sleepy, and dusty—they reached Umballa City Station. “We abide here upon a law suit.” 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. W ill—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 find 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 awhile —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 t look to-night for the River?’’ "Too late and too dark. Be comforted. Think how far thou art on the road—an hundred kos from Lahore already.” “Yes—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 Alt's directions left him little doubt of the house in w-hich his Englishman lived; and a groom, bringing

a dog-cart home from the Club, made him quite sure. It remained only to identify his man, and Kim slipped through the garden hedge and lay- in a clump of plumed grass close to the verandah. The house was blazing 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 experiment. “Protector of the Poor!” He backed swiftly towards the unseen 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 on 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 wanted 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 verandah that was halfoffice. littered with papers and despatch boxes, and sit down to study Mahbub Ali’s message. His face, in the full rays 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 draw-ing-room. They’ll be here in a minute.” The man still read intently. “Will! ” said the voice, five minutes later. “He’s eome. 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 verandah, 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—“clenches it. Grogan s dining here to-night, 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. \\ arn the Pindi and Peshawur brigades. It will disorganise all the summer reliefs, but we can’t help that. This comes of not smashing them thoroughly the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.” “What about artillery, sir?” “I must consult Macklin.” “Then it means war, sir?” “No. Punishment. When a man -'s bound by- the action of his predecessor ” “But C 25 may- have lied.” “He bears out the other's information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish wc uld have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once—the new code, not the old —mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment—not war.” As the trooper cantered off Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food—and information. The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions one of whom kicked him. “Aie,” said Kim, feigning tears. “I came only to wash dishes in return for a bellyful.” “All Umballa is on the same errand. Get hence. They- go in now with the soup. Think you that we who serve Creighton Sahib need strange scullions to help us through a big dinner?” “It is a very- big dinner," said Kim. looking at the plates. “Small wonder. The guest of honour is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib (the Commander-in-Chief). “Ho!” said Kim. with the correct guttural note of wonder. He had learned what he wanted, and when the scullion turned he was gone. “And all that trouble.” said he to himself, thinking as usual in Hindustanee. “for a horse’s pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me.to learn a little lying. Every time before that I have borne a message i: concerned a woman. Now it is men. Better. The tall man said that they will lose a great army to punish some one —somewhere —the news goes to Pindi and Peshawur. There are also guns. Would I had crept nearer. It is big news. He returned to find the cultivator's cousin’s- y-ounger brother discussing the family law-suit in all its bearings with the cultivator and his wife and a few friends, while the lama dozed. After the evening meal some one passed him a water-pipe; and Kim felt very much of a man as he pulled at. the smooth cocoanut-shell, his legs spread abroad in the moonlight, his tongue clicking in remarks from time to time. His hosts were most polite; for the cultivator’s wife had told them of his vision of the Red Bull, and of his probable descent fcom another world. Moreover, the lama was a great and venerable curiosity. The family priest, an old. tolerant Sarsut Brahmin, dropped in later, and naturally- started a theological argument to impress the family. By creed, of course, they were all on their priest’s side, but the lama was the guest and the novelty. His gentle kindliness, and his impressive Chinese quotations, that sounded like spells, delighted them hugely; and in this sympathetic,

simple air, he expanded like the Bodhisat’s own lotus, speaking of his life in the great hills of Such-zen, before, as he said, “I rose up to seek enlightenment.”

Then it came out that in those worldly days he had been a masterhand at casting horoscopes and nativities; and the family priest led him on to describe his methods; each giving the planets names that the other could not understand, and pointing upwards as the big stars sailed across the dark. The children of the house tugged unrebuked at his rosary; and he clean forgot the Rule which forbids looking at women as he talked of enduring snows, landslips, blocked passes, the remote cliffs where men find sapphires and turquoise, and that wonderful upland road that leads at last into great China itself. “How thinkest thou of this one?” said the cultivator aside to the priest. “A holy man—a holy man indeed. His Gods are not the Gods, but his feet are upon the Way,” was the answer. “And his methods of nativities, though that is beyond thee, are wise and sure.” “Tell me,” said Kim lazily, “whether I find my Red Bull on a green field, as was promised me.” “What knowledge hast thou of thy birth-hour?” the priest asked, swelling with importance. “Between first and second cockcrow of the first night in May.” “Of what year?” “I do not know; but upon the hour that I cried first fell the great earthquake in Srinagur .which is in Kashmir.” This Kim had from the woman who took care of him, and she again from Kimball O’Hara. The earthquake had been felt in India, and for long stood a leading date in the Punjab. “Ai!” said a woman excitedly. This seemed to make Kim’s supernatural origin more certain. “Was not such an one’s daughter born then -—-” “And her mother bore her husband four sons in four years —all likely boys,” cried the cultivator’s wife, sitting outside the circle in the shadow. “None reared in the knowledge,” said the family priest, “forget how the planets stood in their Houses upon that night.” He began to draw in the dust of the courtyard. “At least thou hast good claim to a half of the House of the Bull. How runs the prophecy?” “Upon a day,” said Kim, delighted at the sensation he was creating, “I shall be made great by means of a Red Bull on a green field, but first there will enter two men making all things ready.” “Yes, thus it is at the opening of a vision. A thick darkness that clears slowly; anon one enters with a broom making ready the place. Then begins the sight. 'Two men — thou sayest? Ay, ay. The Sun. leaving the House of the Bull, enters that of the Twins. Hence the two men of the prophecy. Let us now consider. Fetch me a twig, little one.” He knitted his brows, scratched, smoothed out, and scratched again in the dust mysterious signs—to the wonder of all save the lama, who, with fine instinct, forbore to interfere. At the end of half an hour, he tossed the twig from him with a grunt. “H’m. Thus say the stars. Within three days come the two men to make all things ready. After them follows the Bull; but. the sign over against him is the sign of War—and armed men.” “There was indeed a man of the Ludhiana Sikhs in the carriage from Lahore,” said the cultivator’s wife hopefully. “Tck! Armed men —many hundreds. What concern hast thou with war?” said the priest to Kim. “Thine is a red and an angry sign of War to be loosed very soon.” “None —none,” said the lama earnestly. “We seek only peace and our River.” Kim smiled, remembering what he had overheard in the dressing-room. Decidedly he was a favourite of the stars. The priest brushed his foot over the rude horoscope. “More than this I cannot see. In three days comes the Bull to thee, boy.” “And my River, my River,” pleaded the lama. “I had hoped his Bull would lead us both to the River.” “Alas, for that wondrous River, my brother,” the priest replied. “Such

things are not common.” Next morning, though they were pressed to stay, the lama insisted on departure. They gave Kim a large bundle of good food and nearly three annas in copper money for the needs of the road, and with many blessings watched the two go southward in the dawn.

“Pity it is that these and such as these could not be freed from the Wheel of Things.” said the lama. “Nay, then would only evil • people be left on the earth, and who would give us meat and shelter?” quoth Kim. stepping merrily under his burden. “Yonder is a small stream. Let us look,” said the lama, and he led from the white road across the fields, walking into a very hornet's nest of pariah dogs. CHAPTER 111. Yea, voice of every soul that clung To Life that strove from i ung to rung When Devadatta's rule was young. The warm wind brings Kamaaura. Behind them an angry farmer brandished a bamboo pole, lie was a market gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for Umballa city, and well Kim knew the breed. “Such an one.” said the lama, disregarding the dogs, “is impolite to strangers, intemperate of speech and uncharitable. Be warned by his demeanour, my disciple.” ‘"Ho, shameless beggars!” shouted the farmer. "Begone! Get hence!” “We go,” the lama returned, with quiet dignity. “We go from these unblessed fields.” “Ah,” said Kim, sucking in his breath, “if the next crops fail thou canst only blame thy own tongue.” The man shuffled uneasily in his slippers. “The land is full of beggars,” he began, half apologetically. “And by what sign didst thou know that we would beg from thee, O Mali?” said Kim, tartly, using the name that a market gardener least likes. “All we sought was to look at that river beyond the field there.” “River, forsooth!” the man snorted. “What city do you hail from not to know a canal cut? It runs as straight as an arrow, and I pay for the water as though it were molten silver. There is a branch of the river beyond. But if ye need water I can give that—and milk.” “Nay. we will go to the river,” said the lama, striding out.

“Milk and a meal,” the man stammered. as he looked at the strange, tall figure. “I—l would not draw evil upon myself—or my crops: but beggars are so many in these hard days.” “Take notice,” the lama turned to Kim. “He was led to speak harshly by the red mist of anger. That clearing from his eyes he becomes courteous and of an affable heart. May his fields be blessed. Beware not to judge men too hastily, 0 farmer.” “I have met holy ones who would have cursed thee from hearthstone to byre.” said Kim to the abashed man. “Is he not wise and holy? I am his diseiple.” He cocked his nose in the air loftily and stepped across the narrow field borders with great dignity. “There is no pride.” said the lama, after a pause, “there is no pride among such as follow the Middle Way.” “But thou hast said he was low caste and discourteous.” “Low caste I did not say. for how can that be which is not? Afterwards he amended his discourtesy, and I forgot the offence. Moreover, he is. as we are. bound upon the Wheel of Things: but he does not know the way of deliverance.” He halted at a little rivulet among the fields, and considered the hoof-trod-den bank. “Now. how wilt thou know thy River?” said Kim. squatting in the shade of some tall sugar-cane. “When I find it. an enlightenment will surely be given. This. I feel, is not the place. O littlest among the waters, if only thou couldst tell me where runs my River! But be thou blessed to make the fields bear!” “Look! Look!” Kim sprang to his side and dragged him hack. A yellow and brown streak glided from the purple rustling stems to the bank, stretched its neek to the water. drank, and lay still—a big cobra with fixed, lidless eyes. “I have no stick —I have no stick,” said Kim. “I will get me one and break his back.” “Why, He is upon the Wheel ns we

are—a life ascending or descending - very far from deliverance. Great evil must the soul have done that is cast into this shape." “I hate all snakes,” said Kim. No native training can quench the white man's horror of the Serpent. “Let him live out his life.” The coiled thing hissed and half opened its hood. “May thy release come soon, brother,” the lama continued placidly. “Hast thou knowledge, by ehance. of my River?” “Never have I seen such a man as thou art,” Kim whispered, overwhelmed. “Do the very snakes understand thy talk?” “Who knows?” He passed within a foot of the cobra’s poised head. It flattened itself among the dusty coils. “Come thou!” he called over his shoulder. “Not I.” said Kim. “I go round.” “Come. He does no harm.” Kim hesitated for a moment. The lama backed his order by some droned Chinese quotation which Kim took for a charm. He obeyed and bounded across the rivulet, and the snake made no sign. “Never have I seen such a man.” Kim wiped the sweat from his forehead. “And now. whither go we?” “That is for thee to say. I am old. and a stranger —far from my own place. But that the rel-earriage fills my head with noises of devil-drums I would go in it to Benares now yet by so going we may miss the River. Let us find another river.” Where the hard-worked soil gives three and even four crops a year — through patches of sugar-cane, tobacco. long white radishes, and nolkol. all that day they strolled on. turning aside to every glimpse of water: rousing village dogs and sleeping villages at noonday: the lama replying to the voliied questions with an unswerving simplicity. They sought a river—a river of miraculous healing. Had anyone knowledge of such a stream. Sometimes menlaughed. but more often heard the story out to the end and offered them a place in the shade, a drink of milk, and a meal. The women were always kind, and the little children, as children are the world over, alternately shy and venturesome. Evening found them at rest under the village tree of a mud-walled, mud-roofed hamlet, talking to a headman as the cattle came in from the grazing grounds and the women prepared the day’s last meal. They had passed beyond the belt of market gardens round hungry Umballa. and were amongst the mile wide green of the staple crops. He was a white bearded and affable elder, used to entertaining strangers. He dragged out a string bedstead for

the lama, set warm cooked food befoie him, prepared him a pipe, and, the evening ceremonies being finished in the village temple, sent for the vil-

lage priest. Kim told the older children tales of the size and beauty of Lahore, of railway travel, and such like city things, while the men talked, slowly as their eattle chew the cud. ”1 <annot fathom it." said the headman at last to the priest. "How readest thou this talk?" The lama, having told his tale, was silently telling his beads. "He is a Seeker.” the priest replied.

"The land is full of such. Remember him who came only last month—the faquir with the tortoise?’’ “Ay. but that man had right and reason, for Krishna himself appeared in a vision promising him Paradise without the burning pyre if he journeyed to Praya-g. This man seeks no god who is within mv knowledge." “Peace, he is old: he comes from far off. and he is mad." the smoothshaven priest replied. "Hear me.” He turned to the lama. “Three kos (six miles) to the westward runs the great road to Calcutta.” “But I would go to Benares—to Benares.” “And to Benares also. It crosses all streams on this side of Hind. Now my word to thee. Holy One. is rest here till to-morrow. Then take the road" (it was the Grand Trunk Road he meant) “and test each stream that it overpasses; for. as I understand. the virtue of thy River lies neither in one pool nor place, but throughout its length. Then, if thy gods will, be assured that thou wilt come upon thy freedom.” “That is well said.” The lama was much impressed by the plan. “We will do that to-morrow, and a blessing on thee for showing old feet such a near road." A deep smg-song Chinese half chant closed the sentence. Even the priest was impressed, and the headman feared an evil spell. But none could look at the lama’s simple, eager face and doubt him long. “Seest thou my chela?” he said, diving into his snuff gourd with an important sniff. It was his duty to repay courtesy with courtesv.

“I see—and hear.” The headman rolled his eye where Kim was chatting to a girl in blue as she threw crackling thorns on a fire. “He also has a Search of his own. No river, but a Bull. Yea, a Red Bull on a green field will some day raise him to honour. He is. I think, not altogether of this world. He was sent of a sudden to aid me in this search, and his name is Friend of all the World.”

The priest smiled. "Ho then. Friend of all the World." he cried across the sharp-smelling smoke, "what art thou ?" “This Holy One's disciple," said Kim. “He says thou art a but (a spirit).” "tan buts eat?" said Kim. with a twinkle. "For 1 am hungry." "It is no jest,” cried the lama. "A certain astrologer of that city whose name 1 have forgotten " “That is no more than the city of I'mballa where we slept last night,” Kim whispered to the priest. "Ay, Vmballa was it? He cast a horoscope ami declared that my chela should find his desire within two days. But what said he of the meaning of the stars. Friend of all the World?” Kim cleared his throat and looked round at the village greybeards. “The meaning of my Sfar is War," he replied pompously. Somebody laughed at the little tattered figure strutting on the brickwork plinth under the great tree. Where a native would have lain down. Kim's white blood set him upon his feet. “Av, War.” he answered. "That is a sure prophecy," rumbled a deep voice. "For there is always war along the Border—as I know.” It was an old. withered man. who had served the Government in the days of the Mutiny as a native officer in a newly raised cavalry regiment. The Government had given him a good holding in the village, and though the demands of his sons, now grey-bearded ■officers on their own account, had impoverished him. he was still a person of consequence. English officials — deputy-commissioners even — turned aside from the main road to visit him. and on those occasions he dressed himself in the uniform of ancient days, and stood up like a ramrod. "But this shall be a great war—a war of eight thousand." Kim's voice shrilled across the quick-gathering crowd, astonishing himself. "Redcoats or our own regiments?” the old man snapped, as though he were asking an equal. His tone made men respect Kim. "Redcoats,” said Kim at a venture. “Redcoats and guns.” "But — but the astrologer said no word of this.” cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement. "But 1 know. The word has come to me. who am this Holy One's disciple. There will rise a war—a war of eight thousand redcoats. From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn. This is sure." "The boy has heard bazaar-talk,” said the priest. "But he was always by my side,” said the lama. "How should he know? 1 did not know." "He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead." muttered the priest to the headman. "What new trick is this?" "A sign. Give me a sign.” thundered the old soldier suddenly. "If there were war my sons would have told me." "When all is ready, thy sons, doubt not. will be told. But it is a long road from thy sons to the man in whose hands these things lie." Kim warmed to the game, for it reminded him of experiences in the letter-carrying line, when, for the sake of a few pice, he pretended to know more than he knew. But now he was playing for larger things—the sheer excitement and the sense of power. He drew a new breath and went on. "Old man. give me a sign. Do underlings order the goings of eight thousand redcoats —with guns." “No.” Still the old man answered as though Kim were an equal. “Dost thou know who He is then that gives the order?" “I have seen Him." "To know again?” "I have known him since he was a lieutenant in the top-khana (the artillery)." "A tall man. A tall man with black hair, walking thus?" Kim took a few paces in a stiff, wooden style. "Ay. But that any one may have seen." The crowd were breathlessstill through all this talk. "That is true." said Kim. "But I will say more. Look now. First the great man walks thus. Then He thinks thus. (Kim drew a forefinger over his forehead and downwards till it came to rest by the angle of the jaw.) Anon He twitches his fingers thus. Anon He thrusts his hat under his left armpit.” Kim illustrated the

motion and stood like a stork. The old man groaned, inarticulate with amazement; and the crowd shivered. "So—so—so. But what does He when He is about to give an order?” "He rubs the skin at the back of his neck—thus. Then falls one finger on the table and he makes a small sniffing noise through his nose. Then He speaks, saying: "Loose such and such a regiment. Call out such guns.' ” The old man rose stiffly and saluted. " ‘For" ” —Kim translated into the vernacular the clinching sentences he had heard in the dressing-room af I'mballa—“ 'For.' ” says He, 'we should have done this long ago. It is not war —it is a chastisement. Snffl’ ” "Enough. I believe. 1 have seen Him thus in the smoke of battles. Seen and heard. It is He!” "1 saw no smoke"—Kim's voice shifted to the rapt sing-song of the wayside fortune-teller. “I saw this in darkness. First came a man to make things clear. Then came horsemen. Then came He. standing in a ring of light. The rest followed as 1 have said. Old man. have I spoken truth?” "It is He. Past all doubt, it is He." The crowd drew a long, quavering breath, staring alternately at th’ old man. still at attention, and ragged Kim against the purple twilight. "Said 1 not —said I not he was from the other world?" cried the lama proudly. "He is the Friend of all the World. He is the Friend of the Stars!" "At least it does not concern us,” a man cried. "O, thou young soothsayer, if the gift abides with thee at all seasons 1 have a red spotted eow. She may be sister to thy Bull for aught I know—” "Or 1 care." said Kim. “My stars do not concern themselves with thy cattle." "Nay. but she is very sick." a woman struck in. "My man is a buffalo, or he would have chosen his words better. Tell me if she recover?" Had Kim been at ail an ordinary boy he would have carried on the play. But one does not know Lahore city, and least of all the faquirs by the Taksali Gate, for thirteen years without also knowing human nature. The priest looked at him sideways, something bitterly—a dry and blighting smile. "Is there no priest then in the vilage? I thought I had seen a great one even now.” cried Kim. "Ay—But —” the woman began. "But thou and thy husband hoped to get the cow cured for a handful of thanks.” The shot told. They were notoriously the closest-fisted couple in the village. “It is not well to cheat the temples. Give a young calf to thy own priest, and unless the gods are angry past recall she will give milk within a month.” "A master beggar art thou,” purred the priest, approvingly. "Not the cunning of forty years could have done better. Surelv thou hast made the old man rich ?" "A little flour, a little butter and a mouthful of cardamons." Kim retorted, flushed with the praise, but still cautious. "Does one grow rich on that? And. as thou canst see, he is mad. But it serves me while I learn the road at least.” He knew what the faquirs of the Taksali Gate were like when they talked among themselves, and copied the very inflection of their lewd disciples. "Is his Search then truth or a cloak to other ends? It may be treasure.” “He is mad—many times mad. There is nothing else.” Here the old soldier hobbled up and asked if Kim would accept his hospitality for the night. The priest recommended him to do so. but insisted that the honour of entertaining the lama belonged to the temple, at which the lama smiled guilelessly. Kim glanced from one face to the other and drew his own conclusions. “Where is the money?” he whispered, drawing the old man away into the darkness. "Tn my bosom. Where else?” “Give it me. Quietly and ewiftlv, give it me.” “But why? Here is no ticket to buy.” “Am T thy chela or am I not? Do I not safeguard thy old feet about the ways? Give me the monev and at dawn I will return it.” He slipped his hand into the lama's girdle and brought away the purse. “Be it so—be it so.” The old man nodded his head. “This is a great and terrible world. I never knew there were so manv men alive in it.” Next morning the priest was in a

very bad temper, but the lama was quite happy, and Kim had enjoyed a most interesting evening with the old man, who brought out his cavalry sword and, balancing it on his dry knees, told tales of the Mutiny and young captains thirty years in their graves, till Kim dropped off to sleep. "Certainly the air of this country is good," said the lama. "I sleep lightly, as do all old men: but last night I slept unwaking till broad day. Even now I am heavy.” "Drink a draught of hot milk," said Kim, who had carried not a few such remedies to opium-smokers of his acquaintance. "It is time to take the road again.” "The long road that overpasses all the rivers of the Hind.” said the lama gaily. "Let us go. But how’ thinkest then, chela, to recompense these people. and especially the priest, for their great kindness? Truly they are butparast. but in other lives may be they will receive enlightenment. A rupee to the temple? The thing within is no more than stone and red paint, but the heart of man we must acknowledge when and where it is good." “Holy One. hast thou ever taken the road alone?" Kim looked up sharply, like the Indian crows so busy about the fields. "Surely, child: from Kulu to Pathankot—from Kulu. where my first chela died. When men were kind to us we made offerings, and all men were well-disposed throughout all the hills.” "It is otherwise in Hind,” said Kim drily. "Their gods are many - armed and malignant. Let them alone.” "I would set thee on thy road for a little. Friend of all the World—thou and the yellow man.”. The old soldier ambled up the village street, all shadowy in the dawn, on a gaunt,

scissor-hoeked pony. "Last night broke up th** fountains of remembrance in my so dried heart, and it was as a blessing to me. Truly there is war abroad in the air. 1 smell it. See! 1 have brought my sword,” He sat long - legged on the little beast, with the big sword at his side —hand dropped on the pommel—staring fiercely over the flat lands towards the north. "Tell me again how He showed in thy vision. Come up and sit behind me. The beast will carry two.” "I am this Holy One's disciple,” said Kim, as they cleared the village-gate. The village seemed almost sorry to be rid of them, but the priest's farewell was cold and distant. He had wasted some opium on a man who carried no money. "That is well-spoken. I am not much used to holy men, but respect is always good. There is no respect in these days— not even when a Commisioner Sahib comes to see me. But why should one whose Star leads him to war follow a holy man?” "But he is a holy man,” said Kim earnestly. "In truth, and in talk and in act. holy. He is not like the others. I have never seen such an one. We be no fortune-tellers, or jugglers, or beggars.” "Thou art not, that 1 can see; but I do not know that other. He walks well, though.” The first freshness of the day carried the lama forward with long, easy, camel-like strides,. He was deep in meditation, mechanically- clicking his rosary. They followed the rutted and worn country road that wound across the flat between the great dark-green mango groves, the line of the snowcapped Himalayas faint to the eastward. All India was at work in the fields, to the creaking of well-wheels,

Jthe shouting of ploughmen behind their cattle, and the clamour of the crows. Even the pony felt the good influence and almost broke into a trot as Kim laid a hand on the stirrupleather.

“It repents me that I did not give a rupee to the shrine,” said the lam i at the last bead of his eighty-one. The old soldier growled in his beard, so that the lama for the first time was aware of him. “Seekest thou the River also?" said he. turning. “The day is new." was the reply. “What need of a river save to water at before sundown? I came to show thee a short lane to the Big Road.” “That is courtesy to be remembered. O man of good will: but why the sword ?”

The old soldier looked as abashed as a child interrupted in his game of make-believe. “The sword?” he said, fumbling it. “Oh. that was a fancy of mine—an old man's fancy. Truly the police orders are that no man must bear weapons throughout Hind, but”—he cheered up and slapped the hilt —-“ail the constabeels hereabout know me."

“It is not a good fancy.” said the lama. "What profit to kill men?"

“Very little—as I know: but if evil men were not now and then slain it ■would not be a good world for weaponless dreamers. I do not speak ■without knowledge who have seen the land from Delhi south awash with blood."

“What madness was that, then?” “The Gods, who sent it for a plague, alone know. A madness ate into all the army, and they turned against their officers. That was the first evil, but not past remedy if they had then held their hands, but they chose to kill the Sahibs’ wives and children. Then came the Sahibs from over the sea. and called them to most strict account.”

“Some such rumour. I believe, reached me -once long ago. They called it the Black Year, as I remember.”

“What manner of life hast thou led. not to know The Year? A rumour indeed! All earth knew, and trembled.”

“Our earth never shook but once — upon the day that the Excellent One received Enlightenment." “Umph! I saw Delhi shake at least; and Delhi is the navel of the world.”

“So they turned against women and children? That was a bad deed, for which the punishment cannot be avoided.”

‘ “Many strove to do so, but with verv small profit. I was then in a regiment of cavalry. It broke. Of six hundred and eighty sabres stood fast to their salt—how many think you? Three. Of whom I was one.” “The greater merit.”

-"“Merit! We did not consider it merit in those days. My people, mv friends, my brothers fell from me. They said: ‘The time of the English is accomplished. Det each strike out a little holding for himself.’ But I had talked with the men of Sobraon. of Shillianwallah. of Moodkee and Ferozeshah. I said: ‘Abide a little and the wind turns. There is no blessing in this work.’ In those days I rode seventy miles with an English mem-sahib and her babe on my saddle-bow (Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I placed them in safety, and back came I to my officer —the one that was not killed of our five. ‘Give me work.' said I, ‘for I am an outcast among my own kin. and my cousin's blood js wet on my sable.’ ‘Be content,’ said he. ‘There is great work forward. When this madness is over there is a recompense.’ ” “Ay, there is a recompense when the madness is over, surely?” the lama muttered half to himself.

“They did not hang medals in those days on all who by accident had heard a gun fired. No! In nineteen pitched battles was I: in six and forty skirmishes of horse: and in smail affairs without number. Nine wounds I bear: a medal and four clasps and the medal of an Order, for my captains, who are now generals. remembered me when the Kai-ser-i-Hind had accomplished fifty vears of her reign, and all the land rejoiced. They said, ‘Give him the

order of Berittish India.' I carry it upon my neck now. I have also my jaghir (holding) from the hands of the State—a free gift to me and mine. The men of the old days—they are now commissioners—come riding to me through the crops—high upon horses so that all the village sees—and we talk out the old skirmishes, one dead man's name leading to another.” “And after?" said the lama. “Oh. afterwards they go away, but not before the village’ has seen.” “And at the last what wilt thou do?” “At the last I shall die." “And after?” “Let the Gods look to it. I have never pestered Them with prayers. I do not think They will pester me. Look you. I have noticed in my long life that those who eternally break in upon Those Above with complaints and reports and bellowmgs and weepings are presently sent for in haste, as our colonel used to send for slackjawed down-country men who talked too much. No. I have never wearied the Gods. They will remember this, and give me a quiet place where I can drive my lance in the shade, and wait to welcome my sons: I have no less than three—ressaldar-majors all —in the regiments.” “And they likewise, bound upon the Wheel, go forth from life to life—from despair to despair." said the lama below his breath, “hot. uneasy, snatching.” “Ay.” the old soldier chuckled. “Three ressaldar-majors in three regiments. Gamblers a little, but so am I. They must be well-mounted: and one cannot take the horses as in the old days one took women. Well. well, my holding can pay for all. How thinkest thou? It is a well-watered strip, but my men cheat me. I do not know how to ask save at the lance’s point. Ugh! I grow angry and I curse them, and they feign penitence, but behind my back I know they call me a toothless old ape." “Hast thou never desired any other thing?” “Yes—yes a thousand times. A straight back and a close clinging knee once more; a quick wrist and a keen eye: and the marrow that makes a man. Oh, the old days—the good days of my strength!” “That strength is weakness." “It has turned so: but fifty years since I could have proved it otherwise.” the old soldier retorted, driving his stirrup edge into the pony's lean flank. “But I know a River of great healing.” “I have drunk Gunga-water to the edge of dropsy. All she gave me was a flux, and no sort of strength.” “It is not Gunga. The River that I know washes from all taint of sin. Ascending the far bank one is assured of Freedom. I do not know thy life, but thy face is the face of the honourable and courteous. Thou hast clung to thy Way. rendering fidelity when it was hard to give, in that Black Year of which I now remember other tales. Enter now upon the Middle Wav. which is the path to Freedom. Hear the Most Excellent Law. and do not follow shades.”

“Speak then, old man,” the soldier smiled, half saluting. “We be all babblers at our age.” The lama squatted under the shade of a. mango, whose shadow played checkwise over his face: the soldier sat stiffly on the pony: and Kim. making sure that there we no snakes, lay down in the crotch of the twisted roots.

There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of doves, and a sleepy drone of wellwheels across the fields. Slowly and impressively the lama began. At the end of ten minutes the old soldier slid from his pony, to hear better as he said, and sat with the reins round his wrist. The lama's voice filtered —the periods lengthened. Kim was busy watching a gray squirrel. When the little scolding burch of fur close pressed to the branch disappeared, preacher and audience were fagt asleep, the old officer’s strong cut head pillowed on his arm, the lama's thrown back against the tree bole, where it showed like yellow ivory. A naked child toddled up. stared, and.

moved by some quick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance before the lama —only the ehild was so short and fat that it toppled over sideways, and Kim laughed at •he sprawling, chubby legs. The ehild. scared and indignant, yelled aloud. "Hai! Hail” said the soldier, leaping to his feet. "'What is it? What orders? ... It is ... a ehild! 1 dreamed it was an alarm. Little one—-little one—do not cry. Have 1 slept ? That was discourteous indeed!” “1 fear! 1 am afraid!" roared the ehild. "What is it to fear? Two old men and a boy? How wilt thou ever make a soldier. Princeling?” The lama had waked tco. but. taking no direct notice of the child, clicked his rosary, "What is that?" said the child, stopping a yell midway. "1 have never seen such things. Give them me." "Aha." said the lama, smiling, and trailing a. loop of it on the grass: “This is a handful of cardamoms, This is a lump of ghi: This is millet and chillies ard rice, A supper for thee and m ?." The child shrieked with joy, and snatched at the dark, glancing beads. “Oho." said the old soldier. "Whence had thou that song, despiser of this world ?" "I learned it in Pathankot—sitting on a doorstep." said the lama shyly. "It is good to be kind to babes.” “As I remember, before the sleep came on us. thou hadst told me that marriage and bearing were darkeners of the true light, stumbling-blocks upon the way. Do children drop from heaven in thy country? Is it the Way to sing them songs?" “No man is all perfect," said the lama gravely, re-eoiling the rosary. “Run now to thy mother, little one.” “Hear him!" said the soldier to Kim. "He is ashamed for that he has made a child happy. There was a very good householder lost in thee, my brother. Hai. child!” He threw it a pice. “Sweet meats are always sweet.” And as the little figure capered away into the sunshine: “They grow up and become men. Holy One. I grieve that I slept in the midst of thy preaching. Forgive me.” “We be two old men." said the lama. “The fault is mine. I listened to thy talk of the world and its madness, and one fault led to the next.” "Hear him! What harm do thy Gods suffer from play with a babe? And that song was very well sung. Let us go on and I will sing thee the song of Nikal Seyn before Delhi—the old song.”

Ami they fared out from the gloom of the mango tope, the old man's high, shrill voice ringing across the field, as wail by long-drawn wail he unfolded tin story of Nikal Seyn (Nicholson) — the song that men sing in the Punjab to this day. Kim was delighted, and the lama listened with deep interest. "Ah” Nikal Seyn is dead li< died before Delhi. Lances of North take vengeance for Nikal Seyn." He quavered it out to the end. marking the trills with the flat of his sword on the pony's rump. “And now we come to the Big Road,” said he, after receiving the compliments of Kim: for the lama was offendedly silent. "It is long since I have ridden this way. but thy boy's talk stirred me. See. Holy One —the Great Roacf which is the backbone of all Hind. For the most part it is shaded, as here with four lines of trees: the middle road all hard—takes the quick traffic. Tn the days before railway carriages the Sahibs travelled up and down here in hundreds. Now there are only country carts and such like. Left and right is the rougher road for the heavy carts, grain and cotton and timber. bhoosa. lime and hides. A man goes in safety here—for at every few kos is a police-station. The police are thieves and extortioners (I myself would patrol it with cavalry—young recruits under a strong captain), but at least they do not suffer any rivals. All castes and kinds of men move here. Look! Brahmins and chumars. bankers and tinkers, barbers and bunnias. pilgrims and potters—all the world going and coming-. It is to me as a river from which I am withdrawn like a log after a flood." And truly the Grand Trunk Road is a wonderful spectacle. It runs straight, bearing without crowding India’s traffic for fifteen hundred miles—such a river of life as nowhere else exists in the world. They looked at the green-arched, shade-flecked length of it. the white breadth speckled with slow-pacing folk: and the two-roomed police-sta.tion opposite. “Who bears arms against the law?" a constable called out. laughingly, as he caught sight of the soldier’s sword. “Are not the police enough to destroy evil-doers?” “It was because of the police I bought it.” was the answer. “Does all go well in Hind?” “Ressaldar Sahib, all goes well.” “I am like an old tortoise, look you. who puts his head out from the bank and draws it in again. Ay. this is the road of Hindustan. All men come by this way. . . .” “Son of a swine, is the soft part of the road meant for thee to scratch thy back upon? Father of all the daughters of shame and husband of

ten thousand virtueless ones, thy mother was devoted to a devil, being led thereto by her mother; thy aunts have never had a nose for seven generations! Thy sister!—What owl's folly told thee to draw thy carts across the road? A broken wheel? Then take a broken head and put the two topether at leisure!” The voice and a venomous whipcracking came out of a pillar of dust fifty yards away, where a cart had broken down. A thin, high Kattiwar mare, with eyes and nostrils aflame, rocketted out of the jam. snorting and wincing as her rider bent her across the road in chase of a shouting man. He was tall and greybearded. sitting the almost mad beast as a piece of her. and scientifically lashing his victim between plunges. The old man's face lit with pride. “My child!” said he. briefly, and strove to rein the pony's neck to a fitting arch. “Am 1 to be beaten before the police?" cried the carter. “Justice! I will have Justice ” “Ain T to be blocked by a shouting ape who upsets ten thousand sacks under a young horse's nose? That is the way to ruin a mare.” “He speaks truth. He speaks truth. But she follows her man close." said the old man. The carter ran under the wheels of his cart, and thence threatened all sorts of venffeance. "They are strong men. thy sons.” said the policeman serenely, picking his teeth. The horseman delivered one last vicious cut with his whip and came on at a canter. “My father!" He reined back ten yards and dismounted. The old man was off his pony in an instant, and they embraced as do father and son in the East. CHAPTER IV. Good Luck, she is never a lady. But the cursedest quean alive. Tricksy, wincing, and jady— Kittle to lead or drive. Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger! Meet her—she's busking to leave: Let her alone for a shrew to the bone And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve! Largesse! Largesse. O Fortune! Give or hold at your will. If I've no care for Fortune. Fortune must follow me still! "The Wishing Caps.’’ Then, lowering their voices, they spoke together. Kim came to rest under a tree, but the lama tugged impatiently at his elbow. "Let us go on. The River is not here." "Hai mai! Have we not walked enough for a little? Our River will not run away. Patience, and he will give us a dole.” "That.” said the old soldier suddenly. “is the Friend of the Stars. He brought me the news yesterday. Having seen the very man himself, in a vision, giving orders for the war.” "Hm!" said his son. all deep in his broad chest. "He came by a bazaar rumour and made profit of it.” His father laughed. "At least he did not come to me begging for a new charger and the gods know how many rupees. Are thy brothers' regiments also under orders?” "I do not know. I took leave and came swiftly to thee in case ” "In ease they ran before thee to beg. O gamblers and spendthrifts all! But thou hast never yet ridden in a charge. A good horse is needed there, truly. A good follower and a good pony also for the marching. Let us see -let us see." He thrummed on the pommel. "This is no place to east accounts in. my father. Let us go to thy house.” "At least pay the boy then; I have no pice with me. ami he brought auspicious news. Ho! Friend of all the World, a war is toward as thou hast Raid.” "Nay. as I know, the war," returned Kim composedly. “Eh?" said the lama, fingering his brails, all eager for the road. "My master does not trouble the Stars for hire. We brought the news — bear witness, we brought the news, and now we go." Kim half-crooked lis hand at his side. The son tossed a silver coin through

the sunlight, grumbling something about beggars and jugglers. It was a four-anna piece, and would feed them well for some days. The lama, seeing the flash of the metal, droned a blessing.” "Go thy way. Friend of all the World." piped the old soldier, wheeling his scrawny mount." For once in all my days 1 have met a true prophet—who was not in the army.” Father and son swung round together, the old man sitting as erect as the younger. A Punjabi constable in yellow linen trousers, slouched across the road. He had seen the money pass. "Halt!” he cried in impressive English. "Know ye not that there is a takkus of two annas a head, which is four annas, on those who enter the road from this side road? It is the order of the Sirkar. and the money is spent for the planting of trees and the beautification of the ways.” "And the bellies of the police,” said Kim. skipping out of arm's reach. “Consider for a while, man with the mud head. Think you we come from the nearest pond, like the frog, thy father-in-law? Hast thou ever heard the name of thy brother?” "And wlio was he? Leave the boy alone," cried a senior constable, 'mmensely delighted, as he squatted down to smoke his pipe in the verandah. "He took a label from a bottle of belaitee pani I soda water) and affixing it to a bridge collected taxes for a month from those who passed, saying that it was the Sirkar’s order. Then came an Englishman and broke his head. Ah, brother. I am a town crow, not a village crow.” The policeman drew back abashed, and Kim hooted at him all down the road. "Was there ever such a disciple as 1?" he cried merrily to the lama. “All earth would have picked thy bones within ten miles of Lahore city if I had not guarded thee.” "1 consider in my own mind whether thou art a spirit sometimes, or sometimes an evil imp,” said the lama, smiling slowly. "I am thy chela.” Kim dropped into step at his side—that indescribable gait of the long-distance tramp al] the world over. "Now let us walk.” muttered the lama, and to the click of his rosary they walked in silence mile upon mile. The lama, as usual, was deep in meditation. but Kim's bright eyes were wide open. This broad, smiling river of life, he considered, was a vast improvement on the cramped and crowded Lahore streets. There were new people and new sights at every stride—castes he knew and castes that were altogether out of his experience. They met a troop of long haired, strong scented Sansis with baskets of lizards and other unclean food on their backs, the lean dogs sniffing at their heels. These people kept their own side of the road, moving at a quick, furtive jog-trot, and all other castes gave them ample room, for the Sansi is deep pollu-

tion. Behind them, walking wide and stiffly across the strong shadows, the memory of his leg irons still on him. Strode one newly released from the gaol, his full stomach and shiny skin to prove that the Government fed its prisoners better than most honest men could feed themselves. Kim knew that walk well, and made broad jests of it as they passed . Then an Aka/li, a wild eyed, wild haired Sikh devotee in the blue checked clothes of his faith. with polished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his tall blue turban, stalked past, returning from a visit to one of the independent Sikh States, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa to College-trained princelings in top-boots and white-cord breeches. Kim was carefid net to irritate that man: for the Akali's temper is short and his arm quick. Here and there they met or were overtaken by the gaily dressed crowds of whole villages turning out to some local fair; the women, with their babes on their hips, walking behind the men, the older boys prancing on sticks of sugar-cane, dragging rude brass models of locomotives such as thev sell for a halfpenny, or flashing the sun into the eyes of their betters from cheap toy mirrors. One could see at a glance what each had bought: and if there were any doubt it needed only to watch the wives comparing, brown arm again brown arm, the newly purchased dull glass bracelets that come from the N’orth-

West. These merry-makers stepped slowly, calling one to the other and stopping to haggle with sweetmeatsellers. or to make a prayer before one of the wayside shrines—sometimes Hindu, sometimes Mussulman —which the low caste of both creeds share with beautiful impartiality. A solid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a caterpillar in haste, would swing up through the quivering dust and trot past to a chorus of quick cackling. That was a gang of changars—the women who have taken all the embankments of all the Northern railways under their charge—a flat-footed, big-bosomed, strong-limbed, blue petticoated crowd of earth carriers, hurrying north on news of a job, and wasting no time by the road. They belong to the caste whose men do not count, and they walked with squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads on high, as suits women who carry heavy weights. A little later a marriage procession would strike into the Grand Trunk with music and shoutings, and a smell of marigold and jasmine stronger even than the reek of the dust. One could see the bride's litter, a blur of red and tinsel, staggering through the haze, while the bridegroom's bewreathed pony turned aside to snatch a mouthful from a passing fodder-cart. Then Kim would join the Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the couple a hundred sons and no daughters, as the saying is. Still more interesting and more to be shouted over it was when a strolling juggler with some half-trained monkeys. or a panting, feeble bear, or a woman who tied goats’ horns to her feet, and with these danced on a slack-rope, set the horses to shying and the women to shrill, long-drawn quavers of amazement. The lama never raised his eyes. He did not note the money lender on Ins goose-rumped pony, hastening along to collect the cruel interest; or the long-shouting, deep-voiced little mob—still in military formation—of native soldiers on leave, rejoicing to be rid of their breeches and puttees, and saying the most outrageous things to the most respectable women in sight. Even the seller of Ganges water he did not see, and Kim expected that he would at least buy a bottle of that precious stuff. He looked stead-

ily at the ground, and strode as steadily hour after hour, seeing and hearing nothing. But Kim was in the seventh heaven of joy. The Grand Trunk at this point was built on an embankment to guard against winter floods from the foothills, so that one walked, as it were, a little above the country, along a stately corridor, seeing all India spread out to left and right. It was beautiful to behold the many-yoked grain and cotton waggons crawling over the country roads; one could hear their axles complaining a mile away, coming nearer, till with shouts and yells and bad words they climbed up the steep incline and plunged on to the hard main road, carter reviling carter. It was equally beautiful to watch the people, little clumps of red and blue and pink and white and saffron. turning aside to go to their own villages, dispersing and growing small by twos and threes across the level plain. Kim felt these things, though he could not give tongue to his feelings. and so contented himself with buying peeled sugar-cane and spitting the pith generously about his path. From time to time the lama took snuff, and at last Kim could endure the silence no longer. “This is a good land —the land of the South!” said he. “The air is good; the water is good. Eh?” “And they are all bound upon the Wheel.” said the lama. “Bound from life after life. To none of these has the Way been shown.” He shook himself back to this world. “And now we have walked a weary way,” said Kim. “Surely we shall soon come to a parao (a restingplace). Shall we stay there? Look, the sun is sloping. “Who will receive us this evening?” “That is all one. This country is full of good folk. Besides” —he sunk his voice beneath a whisper—“we have money.” The crowd thickened as they neared the resting-place which marked the end of their day’s journey. A line of stalls selling very simple food and tobacco, a stack of firewood, a police-station, a well, a horse-trough, a few trees, and. under them, some trampled ground dotted with the black ashes of old fires, are all that mark a parao on the Grand Trunk—if you except the beggars and*the erows, both hungry.

(To be continued.)