“The Umballa priest said that my Star was War,” Kim interjected. “I will ask these fools—but there is truly no need. I will run away this night, for all I wanted to see the new things.”
Kim put two or three questions in English to Father Victor, translating the replies to the lama.
Then: “He says, ‘You take him from me and you cannot say what you will make him.’ He says, ‘Tell me before I go, for it is not a small thing to make a child.’ ”
“You will be sent to a school. Later on, we shall see. Kimball, I suppose you’d like to be a soldier?”
“ Gorah-log. No-ah! No-ah!” Kim shook his head violently. There was nothing in his composition to which drill and routine appealed. “I will not be a soldier.”
“You will be what you’re told to be,” said Bennett; “and you should be grateful that we’re going to help you.”
Kim smiled compassionately. If these men lay under the delusion that he would do anything that he did not fancy, so much the better.
Another long silence followed. Bennett fidgeted with impatience, and suggested calling a sentry to evict the fakir.
“Do they give or sell learning among the Sahibs? Ask them,” said the lama, and Kim interpreted.
“They say that money is paid to the teacher—but that money the Regiment will give … What need? It is only for a night.”
“And—the more money is paid the better learning is given?” The lama disregarded Kim’s plans for an early flight. “It is no wrong to pay for