have made the price higher. But who art thou, dressed in that fashion, to speak in this fashion?'
'Aha! That is in the letter which thou shalt write. Never was such a tale. But I am in no haste. Another writer will serve me. Umballa city is as full of them as is Lahore.'
'Four annas,' said the writer, sitting down and spreading his cloth in the shade of a deserted barrack wing.
Mechanically Kim squatted beside him,—squatted as only the natives can,—in spite of the abominable clinging trousers.
The writer regarded him sideways.
'That is the price to ask of Sahibs,' said Kim. 'Now fix me a true one.'
'An anna and a half. How do I know, having written the letter, that thou wilt not run away?'
'I must not go beyond this tree, and there is also the stamp to be considered.'
'I get no commission on the price of the stamp. Once more, what manner of white boy art thou?'
'That shall be said in the letter, which is to Mahbub Ali, the horse-dealer in the Kashmir Serai, at Lahore. He is my friend.'
'Wonder on wonder!' murmured the letter-writer, dipping a reed in the inkstand. 'To be written in Hindi?'
'Assuredly. To Mahbub Ali then. Begin. I have come down with the old man as far as Umballa in the train. At Umballa I carried the news of the bay mare's pedigree.' After what he had seen in the garden, he was not going to write of white stallions.
'Slower a little. What has a bay mare to do? . . . Is it Mahbub Ali, the great dealer?'
'Who else? I have been in his service. Take more ink. Again. As the order was, so I did it. We then went on foot towards Ben-
