his father to beat off with rifles from the veranda a rush of Akas in the days when those head-hunters were bold against lonely plantations. And every tale was told in the even, passionless voice of the native-born, mixed with quaint reflections, borrowed unconsciously from native foster-mothers, and turns of speech that showed they had been that instant translated from the vernacular. Kim watched, listened, and approved. This was not insipid, single-word talk of drummer-boys. It dealt with a life he knew and in part understood. The atmosphere suited him, and he throve by inches. They gave him a white drill suit as the weather warmed, and he rejoiced in the new-found bodily comforts as he rejoiced to use his sharpened mind over the tasks they set him. His quickness would have delighted an English master; but at St Xavier’s they know the first rush of minds developed by sun and surroundings, as they know the half-collapse that sets in at twenty-two or twenty-three. None the less he remembered to hold himself lowly. When tales were told of hot nights, Kim did not sweep the board with his reminiscences; for St Xavier’s looks down on boys who “go native all-together.” One must never forget that one is a Sahib, and that some day, when examinations are passed, one will command natives. Kim made a note of this, for he began to understand where examinations led. Then came the holidays from August to October—the long holidays imposed by the heat and the Rains. Kim was informed that he would go north to some station in the hills behind Umballa, where Father Victor would arrange for him. “A barrack-school?” said Kim, who had asked many questions and thought more. “Yes, I suppose so,” said the master. “It will not do you any harm to keep you out of mischief. You can go up with young De Castro as far as Delhi.” Kim considered it in every possible light. He had been diligent, even as the Colonel advised. A boy’s holiday was his own property—of so much the talk of his companions had advised him,—and a barrack-school would be torment after St Xavier’s. Moreover—this was magic worth anything else—he could write. In three months he had discovered how men can speak to each other without a third party, at the cost of half an anna and a little knowledge. No word had come from the lama, but there remained the Road. Kim yearned for the caress of soft mud squishing up between the toes, as his mouth watered for mutton stewed with butter and cabbages, for rice speckled with strong scented cardamoms, for the saffron-tinted rice, garlic and onions, and the forbidden greasy sweetmeats of the bazars. They would feed him raw beef on a platter at the barrack-school, and he must smoke by stealth. But again, he was a Sahib and was at St Xavier’s, and that pig Mahbub Ali ... No, he would not test Mahbub’s hospitality—and yet ... He thought it out alone in the dormitory, and came to the conclusion he had been unjust to Mahbub.