“Of the service of this Holy One.” Kim pointed to the happy, drowsy lama, who woke with a jerk at the well-loved word.
“Ah, he was sent from Heaven to aid me. He is called the Friend of all the World. He is also called the Friend of the Stars. He walks as a physician—his time being ripe. Great is his wisdom.”
“And a Son of the Charm,” said Kim under his breath, as the Kamboh made haste to prepare a pipe lest the Mahratta should beg.
“And who is that ?” the Mahratta asked, glancing sideways nervously.
“One whose child I—we have cured, who lies under great debt to us. Sit by the window, man from Jullundur. Here is a sick one.”
“Humph! I have no desire to mix with chance-met wastrels. My ears are not long. I am not a woman wishing to overhear secrets.” The Jat slid himself heavily into a far corner.
“Art thou anything of a healer? I am ten leagues deep in calamity,” cried the Mahratta, picking up the cue.
“This man is cut and bruised all over. I go about to cure him,” Kim retorted. “None interfered between thy babe and me.”
“I am rebuked,” said the Kamboh meekly. “I am thy debtor for the life of my son. Thou art a miracle-worker—I know it.”
“Show me the cuts.” Kim bent over the Mahratta’s neck, his heart nearly choking him; for this was the Great Game with a vengeance. “Now, tell thy tale swiftly, brother, while I say a charm.”
“I come from the South, where my work lay. One of us they slew by the roadside. Hast thou heard?” Kim shook his head. He, of course, knew nothing of E.23’s predecessor, slain down South in the habit of an Arab