“Do not sit under that gun,” said the policeman loftily.
“Huh! Owl!” was Kim’s retort on the lama’s behalf. “Sit under that gun if it please thee. When didst thou steal the milkwoman’s slippers, Dunnoo?”
That was an utterly unfounded charge sprung on the spur of the moment, but it silenced Dunnoo, who knew that Kim’s clear yell could call up legions of bad bazaar boys if need arose.
“And whom didst thou worship within?” said Kim affably, squatting in the shade beside the lama.
“I worshipped none, child. I bowed before the Excellent Law.”
Kim accepted this new God without emotion. He knew already a few score.
“And what dost thou do?”
“I beg. I remember now it is long since I have eaten or drunk. What is the custom of charity in this town? In silence, as we do of Tibet, or speaking aloud?”
“Those who beg in silence starve in silence,” said Kim, quoting a native proverb. The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in far-away Kulu. Kim watched head to one side, considering and interested.
“Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are charitable. Give, and I will bring it back filled.”