“The deuce he would!” The Englishman looked critically at the boy as Mahbub headed towards the barracks. Kim ground his teeth. Mahbub was mocking him, as faithless Afghans will; for he went on: “They will send him to a school and put heavy boots on his feet and swaddle him in these clothes. Then he will forget all he knows. Now, which of the barracks is thine?” Kim pointed—he could not speak—to Father Victor’s wing, all staring white near by. “Perhaps he will make a good soldier,” said Mahbub reflectively. “He will make a good orderly at least. I sent him to deliver a message once from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a white stallion.” Here was deadly insult on deadlier injury—and the Sahib to whom he had so craftily given that war-waking letter heard it all. Kim beheld Mahbub Ali frying in flame for his treachery, but for himself he saw one long grey vista of barracks, schools, and barracks again. He gazed imploringly at the clear-cut face in which there was no glimmer of recognition; but even at this extremity it never occurred to him to throw himself on the white man’s mercy or to denounce the Afghan. And Mahbub stared deliberately at the Englishman, who stared as deliberately at Kim, quivering and tongue-tied. “My horse is well trained,” said the dealer. “Others would have kicked, Sahib.” “Ah,” said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony’s damp withers with his whip-butt. “Who makes the boy a soldier?” “He says the Regiment that found him, and especially the Padre-sahib of that regiment. “There is the Padre!” Kim choked as bare-headed Father Victor sailed down upon them from the veranda. “Powers O’ Darkness below, O’Hara! How many more mixed friends do you keep in Asia?” he cried, as Kim slid down and stood helplessly before him. “Good morning, Padre,” the Englishman said cheerily. “I know you by reputation well enough. Meant to have come over and called before this. I’m Creighton.” “Of the Ethnological Survey?” said Father Victor. The Englishman nodded. “Faith, I’m glad to meet ye then; an’ I owe you some thanks for bringing back the boy.” “No thanks to me, Padre. Besides, the boy wasn’t going away. You don’t know old Mahbub Ali.” The horse-dealer sat impassive in the sunlight. “You will when you have been in the station a month. He sells us all our crocks. That boy is rather a curiosity. Can you tell me anything about him?” “Can I tell you?” puffed Father Victor. “You’ll be the one man that could help me in my quandaries. Tell you! Powers o’ Darkness, I’m bursting to tell someone who knows something o’ the native!” A groom came round the corner. Colonel Creighton raised his voice, speaking in Urdu. “Very good, Mahbub Ali, but what is the use of telling me all those stories about the pony? Not one pice more than three hundred and fifty rupees will I give.”