“And now you are not afraid—eh?” “Not now.” Lurgan Sahib looked at him more closely than ever. “I shall ask Mahbub Ali—not now, but some day later,” he muttered. “I am pleased with you—yes; and I am pleased with you—no. You are the first that ever saved himself. I wish I knew what it was that ... But you are right. You should not tell that—not even to me.” He turned into the dusky gloom of the shop, and sat down at the table, rubbing his hands softly. A small, husky sob came from behind a pile of carpets. It was the Hindu child obediently facing towards the wall. His thin shoulders worked with grief. “Ah! He is jealous, so jealous. I wonder if he will try to poison me again in my breakfast, and make me cook it twice. “_Kubbee_—_kubbee nahin,_” came the broken answer. “And whether he will kill this other boy?” “_Kubbee—kubbee nahin._” (Never—never. No!) “What do _you_ think he will do?” He turned suddenly on Kim. “Oah! I do not know. Let him go, perhaps. Why did he want to poison you?” “Because he is so fond of me. Suppose you were fond of someone, and you saw someone come, and the man you were fond of was more pleased with him than he was with you, what would you do?” Kim thought. Lurgan repeated the sentence slowly in the vernacular. “I should not poison that man,” said Kim reflectively, “but I should beat that boy—_if_ that boy was fond of my man. But first, I would ask that boy if it were true.” “Ah! He thinks everyone must be fond of me.” “Then I think he is a fool.” “Hearest thou?” said Lurgan Sahib to the shaking shoulders. “The Sahib’s son thinks thou art a little fool. Come out, and next time thy heart is troubled, do not try white arsenic quite so openly. Surely the Devil Dasim was lord of our table-cloth that day! It might have made me ill, child, and then a stranger would have guarded the jewels. Come!” The child, heavy-eyed with much weeping, crept out from behind the bale and flung himself passionately at Lurgan Sahib’s feet, with an extravagance of remorse that impressed even Kim. “I will look into the ink-pools—I will faithfully guard the jewels! Oh, my Father and my Mother, send _him_ away!” He indicated Kim with a backward jerk of his bare heel. “Not yet—not yet. In a little while he will go away again. But now he is at school—at a new _madrissah_—and thou shalt be his teacher. Play the Play of the Jewels against him. I will keep tally.” The child dried his tears at once, and dashed to the back of the shop, whence he returned with a copper tray. “Give me!” he said to Lurgan Sahib. “Let them come from thy hand, for he may say that I knew them before.” “Gently—gently,” the man replied, and from a drawer under the table dealt a half-handful of clattering trifles into the tray. “Now,” said the child, waving an old newspaper. “Look on them as long as thou wilt, stranger. Count and, if need be, handle. One look is enough for _me_.” He turned his back proudly. “But what is the game?”