“But, Little Friend of all the World, there is _my_ honour and reputation to be considered. All the officer-Sahibs in all the regiments, and all Umballa, know Mahbub Ali. Men saw me pick thee up and chastise that boy. We are seen now from far across this plain. How can I take thee away, or account for thy disappearing if I set thee down and let thee run off into the crops? They would put me in jail. Be patient. Once a Sahib, always a Sahib. When thou art a man—who knows?—thou wilt be grateful to Mahbub Ali.” “Take me beyond their sentries where I can change this red. Give me money and I will go to Benares and be with my lama again. I do not want to be a Sahib, and remember I did deliver that message.” The stallion bounded wildly. Mahbub Ali had incautiously driven home the sharp-edged stirrup. (He was not the new sort of fluent horse-dealer who wears English boots and spurs.) Kim drew his own conclusions from that betrayal. “That was a small matter. It lay on the straight road to Benares. I and the Sahib have by this time forgotten it. I send so many letters and messages to men who ask questions about horses, I cannot well remember one from the other. Was it some matter of a bay mare that Peters Sahib wished the pedigree of?” Kim saw the trap at once. If he had said “bay mare” Mahbub would have known by his very readiness to fall in with the amendment that the boy suspected something. Kim replied therefore: “Bay mare. No. _I_ do not forget my messages thus. It was a white stallion.” “Ay, so it was. A white Arab stallion. But thou didst write ‘bay mare’ to me.” “Who cares to tell truth to a letter-writer?” Kim answered, feeling Mahbub’s palm on his heart. “Hi! Mahbub, you old villain, pull up!” cried a voice, and an Englishman raced alongside on a little polo-pony. “I’ve been chasing you half over the country. That Kabuli of yours can go. For sale, I suppose?” “I have some young stuff coming on made by Heaven for the delicate and difficult polo-game. He has no equal. He—” “Plays polo and waits at table. Yes. We know all that. What the deuce have you got there?” “A. boy,” said Mahbub gravely. “He was being beaten by another boy. His father was once a white soldier in the big war. The boy was a child in Lahore city. He played with my horses when he was a babe. Now I think they will make him a soldier. He has been newly caught by his father’s Regiment that went up to the war last week. But I do not think he wants to be a soldier. I take him for a ride. Tell me where thy barracks are and I will set thee there.” “Let me go. I can find the barracks alone.” “And if thou runnest away who will say it is not my fault?” “He’ll run back to his dinner. Where has he to run to?” the Englishman asked. “He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he chooses. He is a _chabuk sawai_ (a sharp chap). It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindu boy.”