“Take it for a gift, then,” said Creighton, tossing it over. “There is a good spirit in thee. Do not let it be blunted at St. Xavier’s. There are many boys there who despise the black men.”
“Their mothers were bazaar-women,” said Kim. He knew well there is no hatred like that of the half-caste for his brother-in-law.
“True; but thou art a Sahib and the son of a Sahib. Therefore, do not at any time be led to contemn the black men. I have known boys newly entered into the service of the Government who feigned not to understand the talk or the customs of black men. Their pay was cut for ignorance. There is no sin so great as ignorance. Remember this.”
Several times in the course of the long twenty-four hours’ run south did the Colonel send for Kim, always developing this latter text.
“We be all on one lead-rope, then,” said Kim at last, “the Colonel, Mahbub Ali, and I—when I become a chain-man. He will use me as Mahbub Ali employed me, I think. That is good, if it allows me to return to the road again. This clothing grows no easier by wear.”
When they came to the crowded Lucknow station there was no sign of the lama. He swallowed his disappointment, while the Colonel bundled him into a ticca-gharri with his neat belongings and despatched him alone to St. Xavier’s.
“I do not say farewell, because we shall meet again,” he cried. “Again, and many times, if thou art one of good spirit. But thou art not yet tried.”
“Not when I brought thee”—Kim actually dared to use the tum of equals—“a white stallion’s pedigree that night?”
“Much is gained by forgetting, little brother,” said the Colonel, with a look that pierced through Kim’s shoulder-blades as he scuttled into the carriage.