“Maybe; but no need to throw them out of the window … It is finished.” His voice thrilled with a boy’s pure delight in the Game. “Turn and look, O Jat!”
“The Gods protect us,” said the hooded Kamboh, emerging like a buffalo from the reeds. “But—whither went the Mahratta? What hast thou done?”
Kim had been trained by Lurgan Sahib; E.23, by virtue of his business, was no bad actor. In place of the tremulous, shrinking trader there lolled against the corner an all but naked, ash-smeared, ochre-barred, dusty-haired Saddhu, his swollen eyes—opium takes quick effect on an empty stomach—luminous with insolence and bestial lust, his legs crossed under him, Kim’s brown rosary round his neck, and a scant yard of worn, flowered chintz on his shoulders. The child buried his face in his amazed father’s arms.
“Look up, Princeling! We travel with warlocks, but they will not hurt thee. Oh, do not cry … What is the sense of curing a child one day and killing him with fright the next?”
“The child will be fortunate all his life. He has seen a great healing. When I was a child I made clay men and horses.”
“I have made them too. Sir Banás, he comes in the night and makes them all alive at the back of our kitchen-midden,” piped the child.
“And so thou art not frightened at anything. Eh, Prince?”
“I was frightened because my father was frightened. I felt his arms shake.”
“Oh, chicken-man!” said Kim, and even the abashed Jat laughed. “I have done a healing on this poor trader. He must forsake his gains and his account-books, and sit by the wayside three nights to overcome the malignity of his enemies. The Stars are against him.”