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' he said; 'but even
then -' He referred to the paper in his hand. 'Hang it all, the
thing was only decided within the last forty-eight hours.'

'Are there many more like you in India?' said Father Victor, 'or are
you by way o' being a lusus naturae?'

'Now I have told you,' said the boy, 'will you let me go back to my
old man? If he has not stayed with that woman from Kulu, I am
afraid he will die.'

'By what I saw of him he's as well able to take care of himself as
you. No. Ye've brought us luck, an' we're goin' to make a man of
you. I'll take ye back to your baggage-cart and ye'll come to me
this evening.'

For the rest of the day Kim found himself an object of
distinguished consideration among a few hundred white men. The
story of his appearance in camp, the discovery of his parentage,
and his prophecy, had lost nothing in the telling. A big, shapeless
white woman on a pile of bedding asked him mysteriously whether he
thought her husband would come back from the war. Kim reflected
gravely, and said that he would, and the woman gave him food. In
many respects, this big procession that played music at intervals -
this crowd that talked and laughed so easily - resembled a festival
in Lahore city. So far, there was no sign of hard work, and he
resolved to lend the spectacle his patronage. At evening there came
out to meet them bands of music, and played the Mavericks into camp
near Umballa railway station. That was an interesting night. Men of
other regiments came to visit the Mavericks. The Mavericks went
visiting on their own account. Their pickets hurried forth to bring
them back, met pickets of strange regiments on the same duty; and,
after a while, the bugles blew madly for more pickets with officers
to control the tumult. The Mavericks had a reputation for
liveliness to live up to. But they fell in on the platform next
morning in perfect shape and condition; and Kim, left behind with
the sick, women, and boys, found himself shouting farewells
excitedly as the trains drew away. Life as a Sahib was amusing so
far; but he touched it with a cautious hand. Then they marched him
back in charge of a drummer-boy to empty, lime-washed barracks,
whose floors were covered with rubbish and string and paper, and
whose ceilings gave back his lonely footfall. Native-fashion, he
curled himself up on a stripped cot and went to sleep. An angry man
stumped down the veranda, woke him up, and said he was a
schoolmaster. This was enough for Kim, and he retired into his
shell. He could just puzzle out the various English Police notices
in Lahore city, because they affected his comfort; and among the
many guests of the woman who looked after him had been a queer
German who painted scenery for the Parsee travelling theatre. He
told Kim that he had been 'on the barricades in 'Forty-eight,' and
therefore - at least that was how it struck Kim - he would teach
the boy to write in return for food. Kim had been kicked as far as

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