'That is true. God, He knows; but I wish to know what you think.'
Kim glanced sideways at his companion, whose eye had a way of compelling truth.
'I—I think he will want me when I come from the school, but'—confidentially, as Lurgan Sahib nodded approval—'I do not understand how he can wear many dresses and talk many tongues.'
'Thou wilt understand many things later. He is a writer of tales for a certain Colonel. His honour is great only in Simla, and it is noticeable that he has no name, but only a number and a letter—that is the custom.'
'And is there a price upon his head too—as upon all the others?'
'Not yet; but if a boy rose up who is now sitting here and went—look, the door is open—as far as a certain house with a red-painted verandah, behind that which was the old theatre in the Lower Bazar, and whispered through the shutters: "Hurree Chunder Mookerjee bore the bad news of last month," that boy might take away a belt full of silver.'
'How many?' said Kim promptly.
'Five hundred—a thousand—as many as he might ask for.'
'Good. And how long might such a boy live after the news was told?' He smiled merrily at Lurgan Sahib's very beard.
'Ah! That is to be well thought of. Perhaps if he were very clever, he might live out the day—but not the night. By no means the night.'
'Then what is the Babu's pay for his work if so much is put upon his life?'
'Eighty—perhaps a hundred—perhaps a hundred and fifty rupees; but the pay is the least part of the work. From time to
