The palanquin reeled off, followed by straggling torches and a horde of dogs. Twenty villages knew the Sahiba—her failings, her tongue, and her large charity. Twenty villages cheated her after immemorial custom, but no man would have stolen or robbed within her jurisdiction for any gift under heaven. None the less, she made great parade of her formal inspections, the riot of which could be heard half-way to Mussoorie. Kim relaxed, as one augur must when he meets another. The _hakim_, still squatting, slid over his hookah with a friendly foot, and Kim pulled at the good weed. The hangers-on expected grave professional debate, and perhaps a little free doctoring. “To discuss medicine before the ignorant is of one piece with teaching the peacock to sing,” said the _hakim_. “True courtesy,” Kim echoed, “is very often inattention.” These, be it understood, were company-manners, designed to impress. “Hi! I have an ulcer on my leg,” cried a scullion. “Look at it!” “Get hence! Remove!” said the _hakim_. “Is it the habit of the place to pester honoured guests? Ye crowd in like buffaloes.” “If the Sahiba knew—” Kim began. “Ai! Ai! Come away. They are meat for our mistress. When her young Shaitan’s colics are cured perhaps we poor people may be suffered to—” “The mistress fed thy wife when thou wast in jail for breaking the money-lender’s head. Who speaks against her?” The old servitor curled his white moustaches savagely in the young moonlight. “_I_ am responsible for the honour of this house. Go!” and he drove the underlings before him. Said the _hakim_, hardly more than shaping the words with his lips: “How do you do, Mister O’Hara? I am jolly glad to see you again.” Kim’s hand clenched about the pipe-stem. Anywhere on the open road, perhaps, he would not have been astonished; but here, in this quiet backwater of life, he was not prepared for Hurree Babu. It annoyed him, too, that he had been hoodwinked. “Ah ha! I told you at Lucknow—_resurgam_—I shall rise again and you shall not know me. How much did you bet—eh?” He chewed leisurely upon a few cardamom seeds, but he breathed uneasily. “But why come here, Babuji?” “Ah! _Thatt_ is the question, as Shakespeare hath it. I come to congratulate you on your extraordinary effeecient performance at Delhi. Oah! I tell you we are all proud of you. It was verree neat and handy. Our mutual friend, he is old friend of mine. He has been in some dam’-tight places. Now he will be in some more. He told me; I tell Mr Lurgan; and he is pleased you graduate so nicely. All the Department is pleased.” For the first time in his life, Kim thrilled to the clean pride (it can be a deadly pitfall, none the less) of Departmental praise—ensnaring praise from an equal of work appreciated by fellow-workers. Earth has nothing on the same plane to compare with it. But, cried the Oriental in him, Babus do not travel far to retail compliments. “Tell thy tale, Babu,” he said authoritatively.