“They say?” echoed the gentleman. “What do you mean?”
“My father died in the serai fifteen years ago, your honour; no one knew his name or country; and old Ibrahim took me; he says I am a Cabuli or a Cashmeri. God knows.”
“And what is your occupation?”
“By your honour’s favour, I work in the serai, and earn from one rupee to four rupees a month, according to the season.”
“Then you understand horses.”
“Oh!”—his face lighting up—“by your favour, yes; and I can ride.”
“Then, I will take you on as syce for my son’s pony—the one you caught yesterday.”
Kareem salaamed to the very matting.
“Your pay will be seven rupees a month and clothes.”
Now, six rupees is a man’s pay, and Kareem was but eighteen. Kareem’s heart was too full for words; he was almost overcome, and on the very verge of tears. All his comrades knew that he was an odd, excitable boy, and laughed and cried like a woman! His feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground; he sped along as if they had wings, and he was a second Mercury carrying home the great news—first over the wide white roads, then across the railway, and finally he plunged into the bazaar.