“A beggar’s answer,” said the Sikh, laughing. “Thou hast brought it on thyself, sister!” Kim’s hands were crooked in supplication.
“And whither goest thou?” said the woman, handing him the half of a cake from a greasy package.
“Even to Benares.”
“Jugglers belike?” the young soldier suggested. “Have ye any tricks to pass the time? Why does not that yellow man answer?”
“Because,” said Kim stoutly, “he is holy, and thinks upon matters hidden from thee.”
“That may be well. We of the Ludhiana Sikhs”—he rolled it out sonorously—“do not trouble our heads with doctrine. We fight.”
“My sister’s brother’s son is naik (corporal) in that regiment,” said the Sikh craftsman quietly. “There are also some Dogra companies there.” The soldier glared, for a Dogra is of other caste than a Sikh, and the banker tittered.
“They are all one to me,” said the Amritzar girl.
“That we believe,” snorted the cultivator’s wife malignantly.
“Nay, but all who serve the Sirkar with weapons in their hands are, as it were, one brotherhood. There is one brotherhood of the caste, but beyond that again”—she looked round timidly—“the bond of the Pulton—the Regiment—eh?”