“Selling horses in this vi-cinity, of course.”
“Here! Why? Speak slowly. There is a thickness in my head still.”
The Babu looked shyly down his nose. “Well, you see, I am fearful man, and I do not like responsibility. You were sick, you see, and I did not know where deuce-an’-all the papers were, and if so, how many. So when I had come down here I slipped in private wire to Mahbub—he was at Meerut for races—and I tell him how case stands. He comes up with his men and he consorts with the lama, and then he calls me a fool, and is very rude—”
“But wherefore—wherefore?”
“That is what I ask. I only suggest that if anyone steals the papers I should like some good strong, brave men to rob them back again. You see, they are vitally important, and Mahbub Ali he did not know where you were.”
“Mahbub Ali to rob the Sahiba’s house? Thou art mad, Babu,” said Kim with indignation.
“I wanted the papers. Suppose she had stole them? It was only practical suggestion, I think. You are not pleased, eh?”
A native proverb—unquotable—showed the blackness of Kim’s disapproval.
“Well,”—Hurree shrugged his shoulders—“there is no accounting for thee taste. Mahbub was angry too. He has sold horses all about here, and he says old lady is pukka (thorough) old lady and would not condescend to such ungentlemanly things. I do not care. I have got the papers, and I was very glad of moral support from Mahbub. I tell you, I am fearful man, but, somehow or other, the more fearful I am the more dam’-tight places I get into. So I was glad you came with me to Chini, and I am glad Mahbub was close by. The old lady she is sometimes very rude to me and my beautiful pills.”
“Allah be merciful!” said Kim on his elbow, rejoicing. “What a beast of wonder is a Babu! And that man walked alone—if he did walk—with robbed and angry foreigners!”