a
little about the Turquoise--some day.'

He moved to the end of the veranda to refill the heavy, porous clay
water-jug from the filter.

'Do you want drink?'

Kim nodded. Lurgan Sahib, fifteen feet off, laid one hand on the jar.
Next instant, it stood at Kim's elbow, full to within half an inch of
the brim--the white cloth only showing, by a small wrinkle, where it
had slid into place.

'Wah!' said Kim in most utter amazement. 'That is magic.' Lurgan
Sahib's smile showed that the compliment had gone home.

'Throw it back.'

'It will break.'

'I say, throw it back.'

Kim pitched it at random. It fell short and crashed into fifty pieces,
while the water dripped through the rough veranda boarding.

'I said it would break.'

'All one. Look at it. Look at the largest piece.'

That lay with a sparkle of water in its curve, as it were a star on the
floor. Kim looked intently. Lurgan Sahib laid one hand gently on the
nape of his neck, stroked it twice or thrice, and whispered: 'Look! It
shall come to life again, piece by piece. First the big piece shall
join itself to two others on the right and the left--on the right and
the left. Look!'

To save his life, Kim could not have turned his head. The light touch
held him as in a vice, and his blood tingled pleasantly through him.
There was one large piece of the jar where there had been three, and
above them the shadowy outline of the entire vessel. He could see the
veranda through it, but it was thickening and darkening with each beat
of his pulse. Yet the jar--how slowly the thoughts came!--the jar had
been smashed before his eyes. Another wave of prickling fire raced down
his neck, as Lurgan Sahib moved his hand.

'Look! It is coming into shape,' said Lurgan Sahib.

So far Kim had been thinking in Hindi, but a tremor came on him, and
with an effort like that of a swimmer before sharks, who hurls himself
half out of the water, his mind leaped up from a darkness that was
swallowing it and took refuge in--the multiplication-table in English!

'Look! It is coming into shape,' whispered Lurgan Sahib.

The jar had been smashed--yess, smashed--not the native word, he would
not think of that--but smashed--into fifty pieces, and twice three was
six, and thrice three was nine, and four times three was twelve. He
clung desperately to the repetition. The shadow-outline of the jar
cleared like a mist after rubbing eyes. There were the broken shards;