“The Hand of Friendship has averted the Whip of Calamity; but another time, when thou takest the Road it will be with me. This is too early.” “Late enough for me. I have learned to read and to write English a little at the _madrissah_. I shall soon be altogether a Sahib.” “Hear him!” laughed Mahbub, looking at the little drenched figure dancing in the wet. “Salaam—Sahib,” and he saluted ironically. “Well, art tired of the Road, or wilt thou come on to Umballa with me and work back with the horses?” “I come with thee, Mahbub Ali.” CHAPTER VIII Something I owe to the soil that grew— More to the life that fed— But most to Allah Who gave me two Separate sides to my head. I would go without shirts or shoes, Friends, tobacco or bread Sooner than for an instant lose Either side of my head.” “Then in God’s name take blue for red,” said Mahbub, alluding to the Hindu colour of Kim’s disreputable turban. Kim countered with the old proverb, “I will change my faith and my bedding, but _thou_ must pay for it.” The dealer laughed till he nearly fell from his horse. At a shop on the outskirts of the city the change was made, and Kim stood up, externally at least, a Mohammedan. Mahbub hired a room over against the railway station, sent for a cooked meal of the finest with the almond-curd sweet-meats (_balushai_ we call it) and fine-chopped Lucknow tobacco. “This is better than some other meat that I ate with the Sikh,” said Kim, grinning as he squatted, “and assuredly they give no such victuals at my _madrissah_.” “I have a desire to hear of that same _madrissah_.” Mahbub stuffed himself with great boluses of spiced mutton fried in fat with cabbage and golden-brown onions. “But tell me first, altogether and truthfully, the manner of thy escape. For, O Friend of all the World,”—he loosed his cracking belt—“I do not think it is often that a Sahib and the son of a Sahib runs away from there.” “How should they? They do not know the land. It was nothing,” said Kim, and began his tale. When he came to the disguisement and the interview with the girl in the bazar, Mahbub Ali’s gravity went from him. He laughed aloud and beat his hand on his thigh. “_Shabash! Shabash!_ Oh, well done, little one! What will the healer of turquoises say to this? Now, slowly, let us hear what befell afterwards—step by step, omitting nothing.” Step by step then, Kim told his adventures between coughs as the full-flavoured tobacco caught his lungs. “I said,” growled Mahbub Ali to himself, “I _said_ it was the pony breaking out to play polo. The fruit is ripe already—except that he must learn his distances and his pacings, and his rods and his compasses. Listen now. I have turned aside the Colonel’s whip from thy skin, and that is no small service.” “True.” Kim pulled serenely. “That is true.” “But it is not to be thought that this running out and in is any way good.”