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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.'

'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?'

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