“No. Punishment. When a man is bound by the action of his predecessor—”
“But C25 may have lied.”
“He bears out the other’s information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish would have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once—the new code, not the old—mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment—not war.”
As the trooper cantered off, Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food—and information. The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions, one of whom kicked him.
“Aie,” said Kim, feigning tears. “I came only to wash dishes in return for a bellyful.”
“All Umballa is on the same errand. Get hence. They go in now with the soup. Think you that we who serve Creighton Sahib need strange scullions to help us through a big dinner?”
“It is a very big dinner,” said Kim, looking at the plates.
“Small wonder. The guest of honour is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib.”
“Ho!” said Kim, with the correct guttural note of wonder. He had learned what he wanted, and when the scullion turned he was gone.
“And all that trouble,” said he to himself, thinking as usual in Hindustani, “for a horse’s pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me to learn a little lying. Every time before that I have borne a message it