“The River of the Arrow?” said Kim, with a superior smile.
“Is this yet another Sending?” cried the lama. “To none have I spoken of my search, save to the Priest of the Images. Who art thou?”
“Thy chela,” said Kim simply, sitting on his heels. “I have never seen anyone like to thee in all this my life. I go with thee to Benares. And, too, I think that so old a man as thou, speaking the truth to chance-met people at dusk, is in great need of a disciple.”
“But the River—the River of the Arrow?”
“Oh, that I heard when thou wast speaking to the Englishman. I lay against the door.”
The lama sighed. “I thought thou hadst been a guide permitted. Such things fall sometimes—but I am not worthy. Thou dost not, then, know the River?”
“Not I,” Kim laughed uneasily. “I go to look for—for a bull—a Red. Bull on a green field who shall help me.” Boylike, if an acquaintance had a scheme, Kim was quite ready with one of his own; and, boylike, he had really thought for as much as twenty minutes at a time of his father’s prophecy.
“To what, child?” said the lama.
“God knows, but so my father told me”. I heard thy talk in the Wonder House of all those new strange places in the Hills, and if one so old and so little—so used to truth-telling—may go out for the small matter of a river, it seemed to me that I too must go a-travelling. If it is our fate to find those things we shall find them—thou, thy River; and I, my Bull, and the Strong Pillars and some other matters that I forget.”
“It is not pillars but a Wheel from which I would be free,” said the lama.