Now the Reverend Arthur Bennett always left Mess after that toast, and being rather tired by his march his movements were more abrupt than usual. Kim, with slightly raised head, was still staring at his totem on the table, when the Chaplain stepped on his right shoulder-blade. Kim flinched under the leather, and, rolling sideways, brought down the Chaplain, who, ever a man of action, caught him by the throat and nearly choked the life out of him. Kim then kicked him desperately in the stomach. Mr Bennett gasped and doubled up, but without relaxing his grip, rolled over again, and silently hauled Kim to his own tent. The Mavericks were incurable practical jokers; and it occurred to the Englishman that silence was best till he had made complete inquiry. “Why, it’s a boy!” he said, as he drew his prize under the light of the tent-pole lantern, then shaking him severely cried: “What were you doing? You’re a thief. _Choor? Mallum?_” His Hindustanee was very limited, and the ruffled and disgusted Kim intended to keep to the character laid down for him. As he recovered his breath he was inventing a beautifully plausible tale of his relations to some scullion, and at the same time keeping a keen eye on and a little under the Chaplain’s left arm-pit. The chance came; he ducked for the doorway, but a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck, snapping the amulet-string and closing on the amulet. “Give it me. O, give it me. Is it lost? Give me the papers.” The words were in English—the tinny, saw-cut English of the native-bred, and the Chaplain jumped. “A scapular,” said he, opening his hand. “No, some sort of heathen charm. Why—why, do you speak English? Little boys who steal are beaten. You know that?” “I do not—I did not steal.” Kim danced in agony like a terrier at a lifted stick. “Oh, give it me. It is my charm. Do not thieve it from me.” The Chaplain took no heed, but, going to the tent door, called aloud. A fattish, clean-shaven man appeared. “I want your advice, Father Victor,” said Bennett. “I found this boy in the dark outside the Mess-tent. Ordinarily, I should have chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief. But it seems he talks English, and he attaches some sort of value to a charm round his neck. I thought perhaps you might help me.” Between himself and the Roman Catholic Chaplain of the Irish contingent lay, as Bennett believed, an unbridgeable gulf, but it was noticeable that whenever the Church of England dealt with a human problem she was very likely to call in the Church of Rome. Bennett’s official abhorrence of the Scarlet Woman and all her ways was only equalled by his private respect for Father Victor. “A thief talking English, is it? Let’s look at his charm. No, it’s not a scapular, Bennett.” He held out his hand. “But have we any right to open it? A sound whipping—” “I did _not_ thieve,” protested Kim. “You have hit me kicks all over my body. Now give me my charm and I will go away.”