The words were in English—the tinny, saw-cut English of the native-bred, and the Chaplain jumped.
“A scapular,” said he, opening his hand. “No, some sort of heathen charm. Why—why, do you speak English? Little boys who steal are beaten. You know that?”
“I do not—I did not steal.” Kim danced in agony like a terrier at a lifted stick. “Oh, give it me. It is my charm. Do not thieve it from me.”
The Chaplain took no heed, but, going to the tent door, called aloud. A fattish, clean-shaven man appeared.
“I want your advice, Father Victor,” said Bennett. “I found this boy in the dark outside the mess-tent. Ordinarily, I should have chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief. But it seems he talks English, and he attaches some sort of value to a charm round his neck. I thought perhaps