“How should they? They do not know the land. It was nothing,” said Kim, and began his tale. When he came to the disguisement and the interview with the girl in the bazar, Mahbub Ali’s gravity went from him. He laughed aloud and beat his hand on his thigh.
“Shabash! Shabash! Oh, well done, little one! What will the healer of turquoises say to this? Now, slowly, let us hear what befell afterwards—step by step, omitting nothing.”
Step by step then, Kim told his adventures between coughs as the full-flavoured tobacco caught his lungs.
“I said,” growled Mahbub Ali to himself, “I said it was the pony breaking out to play polo. The fruit is ripe already—except that he must learn his distances and his pacings, and his rods and his compasses. Listen now. I have turned aside the Colonel’s whip from thy skin, and that is no small service.”
“True.” Kim pulled serenely. “That is true.”
“But it is not to be thought that this running out and in is any way good.”
“It was my holiday, Hajji. I was a slave for many weeks. Why should I not run away when the school was shut? Look, too, how I, living upon my friends or working for my bread, as I did with the Sikh, have saved the Colonel Sahib a great expense.”
Mahbub’s lips twitched under his well-pruned Mohammedan moustache.
“What are a few rupees”—the Pathan threw out his open hand carelessly—“to the Colonel Sahib? He spends them for a purpose, not in any way for love of thee.”
“That,” said Kim slowly, “I knew a very long time ago.”