“Sahibs are always tied to their baggage,” said Kim, nodding at them. “You will stay here.” He went out into the warm rain, smiling sinfully, and sought a certain house whose outside he had noted down some time before …
“Arré! Dost thou know what manner of women we be in this quarter? Oh, shame!”
“Was I born yesterday?” Kim squatted native-fashion on the cushions of that upper room. “A little dyestuff and three yards of cloth to help out a jest. Is it much to ask?”
“Who is she ? Thou art full young, as Sahibs go, for this devilry.”
“Oh, she? She is the daughter of a certain schoolmaster of a regiment in the cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their wall in these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener’s boy. Old men are very jealous.”
“That is true. Hold thy face still while I dab on the juice.”
“Not too black, Naikan . I would not appear to her as a hubshi .”
“Oh, love makes nought of these things. And how old is she?”
“Twelve years, I think,” said the shameless Kim. “Spread it also on the breast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me, and if I am piebald—” he laughed.
The girl worked busily, dabbing a twist of cloth into a little saucer of brown dye that holds longer than any walnut-juice.
“Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head is all unshaved! And he will surely knock off my turban.”