'We Jats are all buffaloes, ' said the Kamboh, softening anew.
Kim rubbed a finger-tip of bitterness on the child's trusting little lips. 'I have asked for nothing,' he said sternly to the father, 'except food. Dost thou grudge me that? I go to heal another man. Have I thy leave—Prince?'
Up flew the man's huge paws in supplication. 'Nay—nay. Do not speak to me thus.'
'It pleases me to cure this sick one. Thou shalt acquire merit by aiding. What colour ash is there in thy pipe bowl? White. That is auspicious. Was there raw turmeric among thy food-stuffs?'
'I—I'
'Open thy bundle.'
It was the usual collection of small oddments: bits of cloth, quack medicines, cheap fairings, a clothful of atta,—the cheap, grayish, rough-ground native flour,—twists of down-country tobacco, tawdry pipe-stems, and heaven knows what else, wrapped in a quilt. Kim turned it over with the air of a wise jackdaw, muttering a Mohammedan invocation.
'This is wisdom I learned from the Sahibs,' he whispered to the lama; and here, when one thinks of his training at Lurgan's, he spoke no more than the truth. 'There is a great evil in this man's fortune, as shown by the stars, which—which troubles him. Shall I take it away?'
'Friend of the Stars, thou hast done well in all things. Let it be at thy pleasure. Is it another healing?'
'Quick! Be quick!' gasped the Mahratta. 'The train may stop.'
'A healing against the shadow of death,' said Kim, mixing the Kamboh's flour with the mingled charcoal and tobacco ash in
