keeping a keen eye on and a little under the chaplain's left armpit. The chance came; he ducked for the doorway; a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck, snapping the amulet string and closing on the amulet.
'Give it me. O give it me. Is it lost? Give me the papers.'
The words were in English—the clipped, sing-song English of the native-bred. The chaplain jumped.
'A scapular,' said he, opening his hand. 'No, some sort of heathen charm. Why—why, do you speak English? Little boys who steal are beaten. You know that.'
'I do not—I did not steal.' Kim danced in agony like a terrier at a lifted stick. 'O give it me. It is my charm. Do not thieve it from me.'
The chaplain took no heed, but, going to the tent door, called aloud. A fattish, clean-shaven man appeared.
'I want your advice, Father Victor,' said Bennett. 'I found this boy in the dark outside the mess-tent. Ordinarily, I should have chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief. But it seems he talks English, and he attaches some sort of value to a charm round his neck. I thought perhaps you might help me.'
Between himself and the Roman Catholic chaplain of the Irish contingent lay, as Bennett believed, an unbridgeable gulf; but it was noticeable that whenever the Church of England dealt with a human problem she was very likely to call in the Church of Rome. Bennett's official abhorrence of the Scarlet Woman and all her ways was only equalled by his private respect for Father Victor.
'A thief talking English, is it? Let's look at his charm. No, it is not a scapular, Bennett.' He held out his hand.
'But have we any right to open it? A sound whipping'
