call up legions of bad bazaar boys if need arose.
“And whom didst thou worship within?” said Kim affably, squatting in the shade beside the lama.
“I worshipped none, child. I bowed before the Excellent Law.”
Kim accepted this new God without emotion. He knew already a few score.
“And what dost thou do?”
“I beg. I remember now it is long since I have eaten or drunk. What is the custom of charity in this town? In silence, as we do of Tibet, or speaking aloud?”
“Those who beg in silence starve in silence,” said Kim, quoting a native proverb. The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in faraway Kulu. Kim watched head to one side, considering and interested.
“Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are charitable. Give, and I will bring it back filled.”
Simply as a child the old man handed him the bowl.
“Rest, thou. I know the people.”
He trotted off to the open shop of a kunjri , a low-caste vegetable-seller, which lay opposite the belt-tramway line down the Motee Bazaar. She knew Kim of old.
“Oho, hast thou turned yogi with thy begging-bowl?” she cried.
“Nay,” said Kim proudly. “There is a new priest in the city—a man such as I have never seen.”