'There is the padre!' Kim pointed to the bare-headed Father Victor sailing down upon them from the verandah.
'Powers o' Darkness below, O'Hara! How many more mixed friends do you keep in Asia?' he cried, as Kim slid down and stood helplessly before him.
'Good morning, Padre,' the Colonel said cheerily. 'I know you by reputation well enough. Meant to have come over and called before this. I'm Creighton.'
'Of the Ethnological Survey?' said Father Victor. The Colonel nodded. 'Faith, I'm glad to meet ye then; an' I owe you some thanks for bringing back the boy.'
'No thanks to me, Padre. Besides, the boy wasn't going away. You don't know old Mahbub Ali'—the horse-dealer sat impassive in the sunlight. 'You will when you have been in the station a month. He sells us all our crocks. He seems to have met your boy somewhere up country. That boy is rather a curiosity. Can you tell me anything about him?'
'Can I tell you?' puffed Father Victor. 'You'll be the one man that could help me in my quandaries. I'll call a boy to hold your horse if ye can give me your attention for a few minutes. Tell you! Powers o' Darkness! I'm bursting to tell some one who knows something o' the native.'
A groom came round the corner. Colonel Creighton raised his voice, speaking in Urdu. 'Very good, Mahbub Ali, but what is the use of telling me all those stories about the pony. Not one pie more than three hundred and fifty rupees will I give.'
'The Sahib is a little hot and angry after riding,' the horse-dealer returned, with the leer of a privileged jester. 'Presently he will see the horse's points more clearly. We will say four hundred
