“Not quite so fast. We’ll look first,” said Father Victor, leisurely rolling out poor Kimball O’Hara’s “_ne varietur_” parchment, his clearance-certificate, and Kim’s baptismal certificate. On this last O’Hara—with some confused idea that he was doing wonders for his son—had scrawled scores of times: “_Look after the boy. Please look after the boy_”—signing his name and regimental number in full. “Powers of Darkness below!” said Father Victor, passing all over to Mr Bennett. “Do you know what these things are?” “Yes.” said Kim. “They are mine, and I want to go away.” “I do not quite understand,” said Mr Bennett. “He probably brought them on purpose. It may be a begging trick of some kind.” “I never saw a beggar less anxious to stay with his company, then. There’s the makings of a gay mystery here. Ye believe in Providence, Bennett?” “I hope so.” “Well, I believe in miracles, so it comes to the same thing. Powers of Darkness! Kimball O’Hara! And his son! But then he’s a native, and I saw Kimball married myself to Annie Shott. How long have you had these things, boy?” “Ever since I was a little baby.” Father Victor stepped forward quickly and opened the front of Kim’s upper garment. “You see, Bennett, he’s not very black. What’s your name?” “Kim.” “Or Kimball?” “Perhaps. Will you let me go away?” “What else?” “They call me Kim Rishti ke. That is Kim of the Rishti.” “What is that—‘Rishti’?” “_Eye_-rishti—that was the Regiment—my father’s.” “Irish—oh, I see.” “Yess. That was how my father told me. My father, he has lived.” “Has lived where?” “Has lived. Of _course_ he is dead—gone-out.” “Oh! That’s your abrupt way of putting it, is it?” Bennett interrupted. “It is possible I have done the boy an injustice. He is certainly white, though evidently neglected. I am sure I must have bruised him. I do not think spirits—” “Get him a glass of sherry, then, and let him squat on the cot. Now, Kim,” continued Father Victor, “no one is going to hurt you. Drink that down and tell us about yourself. The truth, if you’ve no objection.” Kim coughed a little as he put down the empty glass, and considered. This seemed a time for caution and fancy. Small boys who prowl about camps are generally turned out after a whipping. But he had received no stripes; the amulet was evidently working in his favour, and it looked as though the Umballa horoscope and the few words that he could remember of his father’s maunderings fitted in most miraculously. Else why did the fat padre seem so impressed, and why the glass of hot yellow drink from the lean one? “My father, he is dead in Lahore city since I was very little. The woman, she kept _kabarri_ shop near where the hire-carriages are.” Kim began with a plunge, not quite sure how far the truth would serve him. “Your mother?”