'Those who beg in silence starve in silence,' said Kim, quoting a native proverb. The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in far away Kulu. Kim watched—head to one side, considering and interested.
'Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are charitable. Give, and I will bring it back filled.' Simply as a child the old man handed him the bowl.
'Rest thou. I know the people.'
He trotted off to the open shop of a Kunjri, a low-caste vegetable-seller, which lay opposite the belt-tramway line down the Motee Bazar. She knew Kim of old.
'Oho, hast thou turned jogi, with thy begging-bowl?' she cried.
'Nay,' said Kim proudly. 'There is a new priest in the city— a man such as I have never seen.'
'Old priest—young tiger,' said the woman angrily. 'I am tired of new priests! They settle on our wares like flies. Is the father of my son a well of charity to give to all who ask? '
'No,' said Kim. 'Thy man is rather yagi (bad tempered) than yogi (a holy man). But this priest is new. The Sahib in the Wonder House has talked to him like a brother. O my mother, fill me this bowl. He waits.'
'That bowl indeed! That cow-bellied basket! Thou hast as much grace as the holy bull of Shiva. He has taken the best of a basket of onions already, this morn; and forsooth, I must fill thy bowl. He comes here again.'
The huge mouse-coloured Brahminee bull of the ward was shouldering his way through the many-coloured crowd, a stolen plantain hanging out of his mouth. He headed straight for the shop, well knowing his privileges as a sacred beast, lowered his head, and puffed heavily along the line of baskets ere making his choice. Up
