sioners even—turned aside from the main road to visit him, and on those occasions he dressed himself in the uniform of ancient days and stood up like a ramrod.
'But this shall be a great war—a war of eight thousand,' Kim's voice shrilled across the quick-gathering crowd.
'Redcoats or our own regiments?' the old man snapped, as though he were asking an equal. His tone made men respect Kim.
'Redcoats,' said Kim at a venture. 'Redcoats and guns.'
'But—but the astrologer said no word of this,' cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement.
'But I know. The word has come to me, who am this holy one's disciple. There will rise a war—a war of eight thousand redcoats. From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn. This is sure.'
'The boy has heard bazar talk,' said the priest.
'But he was always by my side,' said the lama. 'How should he know? I did not know.'
'He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead,' muttered the priest to the headman. 'What new trick is this?'
'A sign. Give us a sign,' thundered the old soldier suddenly. 'If there were war my sons would have told me.'
'When all is ready, thy sons, doubt not, will be told. But it is a long road from thy sons to the man in whose hands these things lie.' Kim warmed to the game, for it reminded him of experiences in the letter-carrying line, when, for the sake of a few pice, he pretended to know more than he knew. But now he was playing for better things the sheer excitement and the sense of power. He drew a deep breath and went on.
'Old man, give me a sign. Do baboos order the goings of eight thousand redcoats—with guns?'
