“An anna and a half. How do I know, having written the letter, that thou wilt not run away?”
“I must not go beyond this tree, and there is also the stamp to be considered.”
“I get no commission on the price of the stamp. Once more, what manner of white boy art thou?”
“That shall be said in the letter, which is to Mahbub Ali, the horse-dealer in the Kashmir Serai, at Lahore. He is my friend.”
“Wonder on wonder!” murmured the letter-writer, dipping a reed in the inkstand. “To be written in Hindi?”
“Assuredly. To Mahbub Ali then. Begin! I have come down with the old man as far as Umballa in the train. At Umballa I carried the news of the bay mare’s pedigree. ” After what he had seen in the garden, he was not going to write of white stallions.
“Slower a little. What has a bay mare to do … Is it Mahbub Ali, the great dealer?”
“Who else? I have been in his service. Take more ink. Again. As the order was, so I did it. We then went on foot towards Benares, but on the third day we found a certain regiment . Is that down?”
“Ay, pulton ,” murmured the writer, all ears.
“ I went into their camp and was caught, and by means of the charm about my neck, which thou knowest, it was established that I was the son of some man in the regiment: according to the prophecy of the Red Bull, which thou knowest was common talk of our bazaar. ” Kim waited for this shaft to sink into the letter-writer’s heart, cleared his throat, and continued: “ A priest clothed me and gave me a new name … One priest,