aloud, and passed on amid a ripple of uneasiness; for native police mean extortion to the native all India over.
'The trouble now,' whispered E.23, 'lies in sending a wire as to the place where I hid that which I was sent to find. I cannot go to the tar-office in this guise.'
'Is it not enough I have saved thy neck?'
'Not if the work be left unfinished. Did never the healer of sick pearls tell thee? Comes another Sahib! Ah!'
This was a tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police,—belt, helmet, polished spurs and all,—strutting and twirling his dark moustache.
'What fools are these police Sahibs!' said Kim genially.
E.23 glanced up under his eyelids. 'It is well said,' he muttered in a changed voice. 'I go to drink water. Keep my place.'
He blundered out almost into the Englishman's arms, and was bad-worded in clumsy Urdu.
'Tum mut? You drunk? You mustn't bang about as though Delhi station belonged to you, my friend.'
E.23, not moving a muscle of his countenance, answered with a stream of the filthiest abuse, at which Kim naturally rejoiced. It reminded him of the drummer-boys and the barrack-sweepers at Umballa in the terrible time of his first schooling.
'My good fool,' the Englishman drawled. 'Nicklao jao! Go back to your carriage.'
Step by step, withdrawing deferentially, and dropping his voice, the yellow Saddhu clomb back to the carriage, cursing the D. S. P. to remotest posterity by—here Kim almost jumped—by the curse of the Queen's Stone, by the writing under the Queen's Stone, and by an assortment of Gods with wholly new names.
'I don't know what you're saying,'—the Englishman flushed
