hundred thorough devils of
his father's prophecy, might pray to the beast after dark, as Hindus
pray to the Holy Cow. That at least would be entirely right and
logical, and the padre with the gold cross would be therefore the man
to consult in the matter. On the other hand, remembering sober-faced
padres whom he had avoided in Lahore city, the priest might be an
inquisitive nuisance who would bid him learn. But had it not been
proven at Umballa that his sign in the high heavens portended War and
armed men? Was he not the Friend of the Stars as well as of all the
World, crammed to the teeth with dreadful secrets? Lastly--and firstly
as the undercurrent of all his quick thoughts--this adventure, though
he did not know the English word, was a stupendous lark--a delightful
continuation of his old flights across the housetops, as well as the
fulfilment of sublime prophecy. He lay belly-flat and wriggled towards
the Mess-tent door, a hand on the amulet round his neck.

It was as he suspected. The Sahibs prayed to their God; for in the
centre of the Mess-table--its sole ornament when they were on the line
of march--stood a golden bull fashioned from old-time loot of the
Summer Palace at Pekin--a red-gold bull with lowered head, ramping upon
a field of Irish green. To him the Sahibs held out their glasses and
cried aloud confusedly.

Now the Reverend Arthur Bennett always left Mess after that toast, and
being rather tired by his march his movements were more abrupt than
usual. Kim, with slightly raised head, was still staring at his totem
on the table, when the Chaplain stepped on his right shoulder-blade.
Kim flinched under the leather, and, rolling sideways, brought down the
Chaplain, who, ever a man of action, caught him by the throat and
nearly choked the life out of him. Kim then kicked him desperately in
the stomach. Mr Bennett gasped and doubled up, but without relaxing
his grip, rolled over again, and silently hauled Kim to his own tent.
The Mavericks were incurable practical jokers; and it occurred to the
Englishman that silence was best till he had made complete inquiry.

'Why, it's a boy!' he said, as he drew his prize under the light of
the tent-pole lantern, then shaking him severely cried: 'What were you
doing? You're a thief. Choor? Mallum?' His Hindustani was very
limited, and the ruffled and disgusted Kim intended to keep to the
character laid down for him. As he recovered his breath he was