When they were telling over the day’s list of visitors, Lurgan Sahib asked Kim who he thought the man might be.
“God knows!” said Kim cheerily. The tone might almost have deceived Mahbub Ali, but it failed entirely with the healer of sick pearls.
“That is true. God, He knows; but I wish to know what you think.”
Kim glanced sideways at his companion, whose eye had a way of compelling truth.
“I—I think he will want me when I come from the school, but”—confidentially, as Lurgan Sahib nodded approval—“I do not understand how he can wear many dresses and talk many tongues.”
“Thou wilt understand many things later. He is a writer of tales for a certain Colonel. His honour is great only in Simla, and it is noticeable that he has no name, but only a number and a letter—that is a custom among us.”