“Certainly, sir,” said the young officer promptly. “Everything waits while a horse is concerned.” “We shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” said Kim’s man. “You can do the honours—keep ’em amused, and all that.” “Tell one of the troopers to wait,” said the tall man, and they both passed into the dressing-room together as the landau rolled away. Kim saw their heads bent over Mahbub Ali’s message, and heard the voices—one low and deferential, the other sharp and decisive. “It isn’t a question of weeks. It is a question of days—hours almost,” said the elder. “I’d been expecting it for some time, but this”—he tapped Mahbub Ali’s paper—“clinches it. Grogan’s dining here to-night, isn’t he?” “Yes, sir, and Macklin too.” “Very good. I’ll speak to them myself. The matter will be referred to the Council, of course, but this is a case where one is justified in assuming that we take action at once. Warn the Pined and Peshawar brigades. It will disorganize all the summer reliefs, but we can’t help that. This comes of not smashing them thoroughly the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.” “What about artillery, sir?” “I must consult Macklin.” “Then it means war?” “No. Punishment. When a man is bound by the action of his predecessor—” “But C25 may have lied.” “He bears out the other’s information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish would have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once—the new code, not the old—mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment—not war.” As the trooper cantered off, Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food—and information. The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions, one of whom kicked him. “Aie,” said Kim, feigning tears. “I came only to wash dishes in return for a bellyful.” “All Umballa is on the same errand. Get hence. They go in now with the soup. Think you that we who serve Creighton Sahib need strange scullions to help us through a big dinner?” “It is a very big dinner,” said Kim, looking at the plates. “Small wonder. The guest of honour is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib [the Commander-in-Chief].” “Ho!” said Kim, with the correct guttural note of wonder. He had learned what he wanted, and when the scullion turned he was gone. “And all that trouble,” said he to himself, thinking as usual in Hindustani, “for a horse’s pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me to learn a little lying. Every time before that I have borne a message it concerned a woman. Now it is men. Better. The tall man said that they will loose a great army to punish someone—somewhere—the news goes to Pindi and Peshawur. There are also guns. Would I had crept nearer. It is big news!”