ares, but on the third day we found a certain regiment. Is that down?'
'Ay, pulton,' murmured the writer, all ears.
'I went into their camp and was caught, and by means of the charm about my neck, which thou knowest, it was established that I was the son of some man in the regiment; according to the prophecy of the Red Bull, which thou knowest was common talk of the bazar.' Kim waited for this shaft to sink into the letter-writer's heart, cleared his throat, and continued: 'A priest clothed me and gave me a new name. . . One priest, however, was a fool. The clothes are very heavy, but I am a Sahib and my heart is heavy too. They send me to a school and beat me. I do not like the air and water here. Come then and help me, Mahbub Ali, or send me some money, for I have not sufficient to pay the writer who writes this.'
'Who writes this. It is my own fault that I was tricked. But what a tale! What a tale! Is it true by any chance?'
'It does not profit to tell lies to Mahbub Ali. It is better to help his friends by lending them a stamp than to ask questions. When the money comes I will repay in Umballa.'
The writer grunted doubtfully, but took a stamp out of his desk, sealed the letter, handed it over to Kim, and departed. Mahbub Ali's was a name of power.
'That is the way to win a good account with the gods,' Kim shouted after him.
'Pay me twice over when the money comes,' the man cried over his shoulder.
'What was you bukkin' to that nigger about?' said the drummer-boy when Kim returned to the verandah. 'I was watchin' you.'
'Oah. I was only talkin' to him.'
'You talk same as a nigger, don't you?'
