the ground, much as a heavy fruit-eating bat cowers, and returned to his rosary.
'Stand farther off, beggar!' The order was shouted in broken Hindustanee by one of the hillmen.
'Huh! It is only a pahari' (a hillman), said Kim over his shoulder. 'Since when have the hillmen owned all Hindustan?'
The retort was a swift and brilliant sketch of Kim's pedigree for three generations.
'Ah!' Kim's voice was sweeter than ever, as he broke the dung-cake into fit pieces. 'In my country we call that the beginning of love-talk.'
A harsh, thin cackle behind the curtains put the hillman on his mettle for a second shot.
'Not so bad—not so bad,' said Kim, with calm. 'But have a care, my brother, lest we—we, I say—be minded to give a curse or so in return. And our curses have the knack of biting home.'
The Ooryas laughed; the hillman sprang forward threateningly; the lama suddenly raised his head, bringing his huge tam-o'-shanter cap into the full light of Kim's new-started fire.
'What is it?' said he.
The man halted as though struck to stone. 'I—I am saved from a great sin,' he stammered.
'The foreigner has found him a priest at last,' whispered one of the Ooryas.
'Hai! Why is that beggar brat not well beaten?' the old woman cried.
The hillman drew back to the cart and whispered something to the curtain. There was dead silence, then a muttering.
'This goes well,' thought Kim, pretending neither to see nor hear.
'When—when—he has eaten'—the hillman fawned on Kim
