hanging above the fiend-embroidered draperies of those ghastly
functions--horned masks, scowling masks, and masks of idiotic terror.
In a corner, a Japanese warrior, mailed and plumed, menaced him with a
halberd, and a score of lances and khandas and kuttars gave back the
unsteady gleam. But what interested Kim more than all these things--he
had seen devil-dance masks at the Lahore Museum--was a glimpse of the
soft-eyed Hindu child who had left him in the doorway, sitting
cross-legged under the table of pearls with a little smile on his
scarlet lips.

'I think that Lurgan Sahib wishes to make me afraid. And I am sure
that that devil's brat below the table wishes to see me afraid.

'This place,' he said aloud, 'is like a Wonder House. Where is my bed?'

Lurgan Sahib pointed to a native quilt in a corner by the loathsome
masks, picked up the lamp, and left the room black.

'Was that Lurgan Sahib?' Kim asked as he cuddled down. No answer. He
could hear the Hindu boy breathing, however, and, guided by the sound,
crawled across the floor, and cuffed into the darkness, crying: 'Give
answer, devil! Is this the way to lie to a Sahib?'

From the darkness he fancied he could hear the echo of a chuckle. It
could not be his soft-fleshed companion, because he was weeping. So Kim
lifted up his voice and called aloud:

'Lurgan Sahib! O Lurgan Sahib! Is it an order that thy servant does
not speak to me?'

'It is an order.' The voice came from behind him and he started.

'Very good. But remember,' he muttered, as he resought the quilt, 'I
will beat thee in the morning. I do not love Hindus.'

That was no cheerful night; the room being overfull of voices and
music. Kim was waked twice by someone calling his name. The second
time he set out in search, and ended by bruising his nose against a box
that certainly spoke with a human tongue, but in no sort of human
accent. It seemed to end in a tin trumpet and to be joined by wires to
a smaller box on the floor--so far, at least, as he could judge by
touch. And the voice, very hard and whirring, came out of the trumpet.
Kim rubbed his nose and grew furious, thinking, as usual, in Hindi.

'This with a beggar from the bazar might be good, but--I am a Sahib and
the son of a Sahib and, which is twice as much more beside, a student
of Nucklao. Yess' (here he turned to English), 'a boy of St Xavier's.
Damn Mr Lurgan's eyes!--It is some sort of machinery like a
sewing-mach