'Arre. Dost thou know what manner of women we be in this quarter? O shame!'
'Was I born yesterday?' Kim squatted native fashion on the cushions of that upper room. 'A little dye-stuff and three yards of cloth to help out a jest. Is it much to ask?'
'Who is she? Thou art full young, as Sahibs go, for this devilry.'
'Oh, she? She is the daughter of a certain schoolmaster of a regiment in the cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their wall in these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener's boy. Old men are very jealous.'
'That is true. Hold thy face still while I dab on the juice.'
'Not too black, Haikun. I would not appear to her as a hubshi (nigger).'
'Oh, love makes naught of these things. And how old is she?'
'Twelve years, I think,' said the shameless Kim. 'Spread it also on the breast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me and if I am piebald' he laughed.
The girl worked busily, dabbing a twist of cloth into a little saucer of brown dye that holds longer than any walnut juice.
'Now send out and get me a loin-cloth, and a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head is all unshaved. And he will surely knock off my turban.'
'I am not a barber, but I will make shift. Thou wast born to be a breaker of hearts! All this disguise for one evening? Remember, the stuff does not wash away.' She shook with laughter till her bracelets and anklets jingled. ' But who is to pay me for this?'
'Trust in the gods, my sister,' said Kim gravely, screwing his face round as the stain dried. 'Some days a feast, and some days a famine. Besides, hast thou ever helped to paint a Sahib thus before?'
