But I do not think he wants to be a soldier. I take him for a ride. Now it is time to go home. Tell me where thy barracks are and I will set thee down.'
'Let me go. I can go to 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 chaluk sawai (a sharp chap). It needs only to change his clothing, and in a twinkling he would be a low-caste Hindi boy.'
'The deuce he would!' The Englishman, of a sudden, looked critically at the boy as Mahbub headed towards the barracks. Kim ground his teeth. Mahbub was betraying him, mercilessly mocking him the while, 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 yonder is thine?'
Kim pointed—he could not speak—to Father Victor's wing, all staring white across the plain. If the Englishman had not come he might have prevailed upon Mahbub to let him go. Now his chance was lost.
'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—a message to this town—from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a white stallion.'
'Ah,' said the Englishman, lazily rubbing his pony's damp withers with his whip-butt. 'Who will make the boy a soldier?'
'He says even the regiment that found him, and especially the padre-sahib of that regiment.'
