“What is caste to a cut throat?” said Kim, rending it to the waist. “We must make thee a yellow Saddhu all over. Strip—strip swiftly, and shake thy hair over thine eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a caste-mark on thy forehead.” He drew from his bosom the little Survey paintbox and a cake of crimson lake.
“Art thou only a beginner?” said E.23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loincloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared brow.
“But two days entered to the Game, brother,” Kim replied. “Smear more ash on the bosom.”
“Hast thou met—a physician of sick pearls?” He switched out his long, tight-rolled turban-cloth and, with swiftest hands, rolled it over and under about his loins into the intricate devices of a Saddhu’s cincture.
“Hah! Dost thou know his touch, then? He was my teacher for a while. We must bar thy legs. Ash cures wounds. Smear it again.”
“I was his pride once, but thou art almost better. The Gods are kind to us! Give me that .”
It was a tin box of opium pills among the rubbish of the Jat’s bundle. E.23 gulped down a half handful. “They are good against hunger, fear, and chill. And they make the eyes red too,” he explained. “Now I shall have heart to play the Game. We lack only a Saddhu’s tongs. What of the old clothes?”
Kim rolled them small, and stuffed them into the slack folds of his tunic. With a yellow-ochre paint cake he smeared the legs and the breast, great streaks against the background of flour, ash, and turmeric.
“The blood on them is enough to hang thee, brother.”