on the child’s trusting little lips. “I have asked for nothing,” he said sternly to the father, “except food. Dost thou grudge me that? I go to heal another man. Have I thy leave—Prince?”
Up flew the man’s huge paws in supplication. “Nay—nay. Do not mock me thus.”
“It pleases me to cure this sick one. Thou shalt acquire merit by aiding. What colour ash is there in thy pipe-bowl? White. That is auspicious. Was there raw turmeric among thy foodstuffs?”
“I—I—”
“Open thy bundle!”
It was the usual collection of small oddments: bits of cloth, quack medicines, cheap fairings, a clothful of atta —greyish, rough-ground native flour—twists of down-country tobacco, tawdry pipe-stems, and a packet of curry-stuff, all wrapped in a quilt. Kim turned it over with the air of a wise warlock, muttering a Mohammedan invocation.