“Who cares to tell truth to a letter-writer?” Kim answered, feeling Mahbub’s palm on his heart.
“Hi! Mahbub, you old villain, pull up!” cried a voice, and an Englishman raced alongside on a little polo-pony. “I’ve been chasing you half over the country. That Kabuli of yours can go. For sale, I suppose?”
“I have some young stuff coming on made by Heaven for the delicate and difficult polo-game. He has no equal. He—”
“Plays polo and waits at table. Yes. We know all that. What the deuce have you got there?”
“A. boy,” said Mahbub gravely. “He was being beaten by another boy. His father was once a white soldier in the big war. The boy was a child in Lahore city. He played with my horses when he was a babe. Now I think they will make him a soldier. He has been newly caught by his father’s Regiment that went up to the war last week. But I do not think he wants to be a soldier. I take him for a ride. Tell me where thy barracks are and I will set thee there.”
“Let me go. I can find the barracks alone.”
“And if thou runnest away who will say it is not my fault?”
“He’ll run back to his dinner. Where has he to run to?” the Englishman asked.
“He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses. He is a chabuk sawai (a sharp chap). It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindu boy.”
“The deuce he would!” The Englishman looked critically at the boy as Mahbub headed towards the barracks. Kim ground his teeth. Mahbub was mocking him, as faithless Afghans will; for he went on: