“I do. Ye’ll make a wonderful account of it. Never a word will I say to anyone till I see it in print.”
“Thank you. That goes straight to an ethnologist’s heart. Well, I must be getting back to my breakfast. Good Heavens! Old Mahbub here still?” He raised his voice, and the horse-dealer came out from under the shadow of the tree, “Well, what is it?”
“As regards that young horse,” said Mahbub, “I say that when a colt is born to be a polo-pony, closely following the ball without teaching—when such a colt knows the game by divination—then I say it is a great wrong to break that colt to a heavy cart, Sahib!”
“So say I also, Mahbub. The colt will be entered for polo only. (These fellows think of nothing in the world but horses, Padre.) I’ll see you tomorrow, Mahbub, if you’ve anything likely for sale.”
The dealer saluted, horseman-fashion, with a sweep of the off hand. “Be patient a little, Friend of all the World,” he whispered to the agonized Kim. “Thy fortune is made. In a little while thou goest to Nucklao, and—here is something to pay the letter-writer. I shall see thee again, I think, many times,” and he cantered off down the road.
“Listen to me,” said the Colonel from the veranda, speaking in the vernacular. “In three days thou wilt go with me to Lucknow, seeing and hearing new things all the while. Therefore sit still for three days and do not run away. Thou wilt go to school at Lucknow.”
“Shall I meet my Holy One there?” Kim whimpered.
“At least Lucknow is nearer to Benares than Umballa. It may be thou wilt go under my protection. Mahbub Ali knows this, and he will be angry if thou returnest to the Road now. Remember—much has been told me which I do not forget.”