Mister Lurgan's. I shall report you offeecially better. Good-bye, my dear fallow, and when next you are under the emotions please do not use the Mohammedan terms with the Tibet dress.'
He shook hands twice—a Babu to his boot heels—and opened the door. With the fall of the sunlight upon his still triumphant face he returned to the humble Dacca quack.
'He robbed them,' thought Kim, forgetting his own share in the game. 'He tricked them. He lied to them like a Bengali. They give him a chit (a testimonial). He makes them a mock at the risk of his life—I never would have gone down to them after the pistol-shots—and he says he is a fearful man. . . . And he is a fearful man. I must get into the world again.'
At first his legs bent like bad pipe-stems and the flood and rush of the sunlit air dazzled him. He squatted by the white wall, the mind rummaging among the incidents of the long dooli journey, the lama's weaknesses, and now that the stimulus of talk was removed, his own great self-pity, of which, like the sick, he had great store. The unnerved brain edged away from all the outside, as a raw horse, once rowelled, sidles from the spur. It was enough, amply enough, that the spoil of the kilta was away—off his hands—out of his possession. He tried to think of the lama,—to wonder why he had tumbled into a brook,—but the bigness of the world, seen between the forecourt gates, swept linked thought aside. Then he looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops—looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things—stared for a still half-hour. All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings—a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar crusher laid by in
