“They will send him to a school and put heavy boots on his feet and swaddle him in these clothes. Then he will forget all he knows. Now, which of the barracks is thine?”
Kim pointed—he could not speak—to Father Victor’s wing, all staring white near by.
“Perhaps he will make a good soldier,” said Mahbub reflectively.
“He will make a good orderly at least. I sent him to deliver a message once from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a white stallion.”
Here was deadly insult on deadlier injury—and the Sahib to whom he had so craftily given that war-waking letter heard it all. Kim beheld Mahbub Ali frying in flame for his treachery, but for himself he saw one long grey vista of barracks, schools, and barracks again. He gazed imploringly at the clear-cut face in which there was no glimmer of recognition; but even at this extremity it never occurred to him to throw himself on the white man’s mercy or to denounce the Afghan. And Mahbub stared deliberately at the Englishman, who stared as deliberately at Kim, quivering and tongue-tied.
“My horse is well trained,” said the dealer. “Others would have kicked, Sahib.”
“Ah,” said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony’s damp withers with his whip-butt. “Who makes the boy a soldier?”
“He says the Regiment that found him, and especially the Padre-sahib of that regiment.
“There is the Padre!” Kim choked as bare-headed Father Victor sailed down upon them from the veranda.
“Powers O’ Darkness below, O’Hara! How many more mixed friends do you keep in Asia?” he cried, as Kim slid down and stood helplessly before him.