IX

There was one large piece of the jar where there had been three, and above them the shadowy outline of the entire vessel. He could see the veranda through it, but it was thickening and darkening with each beat of his pulse. Yet the jar⁠—how slowly the thoughts came!⁠—the jar had been smashed before his eyes. Another wave of prickling fire raced down his neck, as Lurgan Sahib moved his hand.

“Look! It is coming into shape,” said Lurgan Sahib.

So far Kim had been thinking in Hindi, but a tremor came on him, and with an effort like that of a swimmer before sharks, who hurls himself half out of the water, his mind leaped up from a darkness that was swallowing it and took refuge in⁠—the multiplication-table in English!

“Look! It is coming into shape,” whispered Lurgan Sahib.

The jar had been smashed⁠—yess, smashed⁠—not the native word, he would not think of that⁠—but smashed⁠—into fifty pieces, and twice three was six, and thrice three was nine, and four times three was twelve. He clung desperately to the repetition. The shadow-outline of the jar cleared like a mist after rubbing eyes. There were the broken shards; there was the spilt water drying in the sun, and through the cracks of the veranda showed, all ribbed, the white house-wall below⁠—and thrice twelve was thirty-six!

“Look! Is it coming into shape?” asked Lurgan Sahib.

“But it is smashed⁠—smashed,” he gasped⁠—Lurgan Sahib had been muttering softly for the last half-minute. Kim wrenched his head aside. “Look! Dekho! It is there as it was there.”

“It is there as it was there,” said Lurgan, watching Kim closely while the boy rubbed his neck. “But you are the first of many who has ever seen it so.” He wiped his broad forehead.