He pointed towards the Museum.'He came upon me to show me a road which I had lost.He led me into the Wonder House,and by his talk emboldened me to speak to the Keeper of the Images,so that I was cheered and made strong.And when I was faint with hunger he begged for me,as would a chela for his teacher.Suddenly was he sent.Suddenly has he gone away.It was in my mind to have taught him the Law upon the road to Benares.'
Kim stood amazed at this,because he had overheard the talk in the Museum,and knew that the old man was speaking the truth,which is a thing a native on the road seldom presents to a stranger.
'But I see now that he was but sent for a purpose.By this I know that I shall find a certain River for which I seek.'
'The River of the Arrow?'said Kim,with a superior smile.
'Is this yet another Sending?'cried the lama.'To none have I spoken of my search,save to the Priest of the Images.Who art thou?'
'Thy chela ,'said Kim simply,sitting on his heels.'I have never seen anyone like to thee in all this my life.I go with thee to Benares.
And,too,I think that so old a man as thou,speaking the truth to chance-met people at dusk,is in great need of a disciple.'
'But the River -the River of the Arrow?'
'Oh,that I heard when thou wast speaking to the Englishman.I lay against the door.'
The lama sighed.'I thought thou hadst been a guide permitted.Such things fall sometimes -but I am not worthy.Thou dost not then,know the River?'
'Not I.'Kim laughed uneasily.'I go to look for -for a bull -a Red Bull on a green field who shall help me.'Boylike,if an acquaintance had a scheme,Kim was quite ready with one of his own;and,boylike,he had really thought for as much as twenty minutes at a time of his father's prophecy.
'To what,child?'said the lama.
'God knows,but so my father told me.I heard thy talk in the Wonder House of all those new strange places in the Hills,and if one so old and so little -so used to truth-telling -may go out for the small matter of a river,it seemed to me that I too must go a-travelling.If it is our fate to find those things we shall find them -thou,thy River;and I,my Bull,and the Strong Pillars and some other matters that I forget.'
'It is not pillars but a Wheel from which I would be free,'said the lama.
'That is all one.Perhaps they will make me a king,'said Kim,serenely prepared for anything.
'I will teach thee other and better desires upon the road,'the lama replied in the voice of authority.'Let us go to Benares.'
'Not by night.Thieves are abroad.Wait till the day.'
'But there is no place to sleep.'The old man was used to the order of his monastery,and though he slept on the ground,as the Rule decrees,preferred a decency in these things.
'We shall get good lodging at the Kashmir Serai,'said Kim,laughing at his perplexity.'I have a friend there.Come!'
The hot and crowded bazars blazed with light as they made their way through the press of all the races in Upper India,and the lama mooned through it like a man in a dream.It was his first experience of a large manufacturing city,and the crowded tram-car with its continually squealing brakes frightened him.Half pushed,half towed,he arrived at the high gate of the Kashmir Serai:that huge open square over against the railway station,surrounded with arched cloisters,where the camel and horse caravans put up on their return from Central Asia.Here were all manner of Northern folk,tending tethered ponies and kneeling camels;loading and unloading bales and bundles;drawing water for the evening meal at the creaking well-windlasses;piling grass before the shrieking,wild-eyed stallions;cuffing the surly caravan dogs;paying off camel-drivers;taking on new grooms;swearing,shouting,arguing,and chaffering in the packed square.The cloisters,reached by three or four masonry steps,made a haven of refuge around this turbulent sea.Most of them were rented to traders,as we rent the arches of a viaduct;the space between pillar and pillar being bricked or boarded off into rooms,which were guarded by heavy wooden doors and cumbrous native padlocks.Locked doors showed that the owner was away,and a few rude -sometimes very rude -chalk or paint scratches told where he had gone.
Thus:'Lutuf Ullah is gone to Kurdistan.'Below,in coarse verse:'O Allah,who sufferest lice to live on the coat of a Kabuli,why hast thou allowed this louse Lutuf to live so long?'
Kim,fending the lama between excited men and excited beasts,sidled along the cloisters to the far end,nearest the railway station,where Mahbub Ali,the horse-trader,lived when he came in from that mysterious land beyond the Passes of the North.
Kim had had many dealings with Mahbub in his little life,-especially between his tenth and his thirteenth year -and the big burly Afghan,his beard dyed scarlet with lime (for he was elderly and did not wish his grey hairs to show),knew the boy's value as a gossip.Sometimes he would tell Kim to watch a man who had nothing whatever to do with horses:to follow him for one whole day and report every soul with whom he talked.Kim would deliver himself of his tale at evening,and Mahbub would listen without a word or gesture.It was intrigue of some kind,Kim knew;but its worth lay in saying nothing whatever to anyone except Mahbub,who gave him beautiful meals all hot from the cookshop at the head of the serai,and once as much as eight annas in money.
'He is here,'said Kim,hitting a bad-tempered camel on the nose.'Ohe,Mahbub Ali!'He halted at a dark arch and slipped behind the bewildered lama.
The horse-trader,his deep,embroidered Bokhariot belt unloosed,was lying on a pair of silk carpet saddle-bags,pulling lazily at an immense silver hookah.He turned his head very slightly at the cry;and seeing only the tall silent figure,chuckled in his deep chest.
'Allah!A lama!A Red Lama!It is far from Lahore to the Passes.What dost thou do here?'
The lama held out the begging-bowl mechanically.
