Creep thou betweene — thy coming’s all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
(By Adam’s, fathers’, own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate or mars?
Sir John Christie.
In the afternoon the red-faced schoolmaster told Kim that he had been ‘struck off the strength’, which conveyed no meaning to him till he was ordered to go away and play. Then he ran to the bazar, and found the young letter-writer to whom he owed a stamp.
‘Now I pay,’ said Kim royally, ‘and now I need another letter to be written.’
‘Mahbub Ali is in Umballa,’ said the writer jauntily4. He was, by virtue5 of his office, a bureau of general misinformation.
‘This is not to Mahbub, but to a priest. Take thy pen and write quickly. To Teshoo Lama, the Holy One from Bhotiyal seeking for a River, who is now in the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares. Take more ink! In three days I am to go down to Nucklao to the school at Nucklao. The name of the school is Xavier. I do not know where that school is, but it is at Nucklao.’
‘But I know Nucklao,’ the writer interrupted. ‘I know the school.’
‘Tell him where it is, and I give half an anna.’
The reed pen scratched busily. ‘He cannot mistake.’ The man lifted his head. ‘Who watches us across the street?’
Kim looked up hurriedly and saw Colonel Creighton in tennis-flannels.
‘I— I am not running away. I send a letter to my Holy One at Benares.’
‘I had not thought of that. Hast thou said that I take thee to Lucknow?’
‘Then why hast thou left out my name in writing to that Holy One?’ The Colonel smiled a queer smile. Kim took his courage in both hands.
‘It was said once to me that it is inexpedient to write the names of strangers concerned in any matter, because by the naming of names many good plans are brought to confusion.’
‘Thou hast been well taught,’ the Colonel replied, and Kim flushed. ‘I have left my cheroot-case in the Padre’s veranda9. Bring it to my house this even.’
‘Where is the house?’ said Kim. His quick wit told him that he was being tested in some fashion or another, and he stood on guard.
‘Ask anyone in the big bazar.’ The Colonel walked on.
‘He has forgotten his cheroot-case,’ said Kim, returning. ‘I must bring it to him this evening. That is all my letter except, thrice over, Come to me! Come to me! Come to me! Now I will pay for a stamp and put it in the post. He rose to go, and as an afterthought asked: ‘Who is that angry-faced Sahib who lost the cheroot-case?’
‘Oh, he is only Creighton Sahib — a very foolish Sahib, who is a Colonel Sahib without a regiment10.’
‘What is his business?’
‘God knows. He is always buying horses which he cannot ride, and asking riddles11 about the works of God — such as plants and stones and the customs of people. The dealers12 call him the father of fools, because he is so easily cheated about a horse. Mahbub Ali says he is madder than most other Sahibs.’
‘Oh!’ said Kim, and departed. His training had given him some small knowledge of character, and he argued that fools are not given information which leads to calling out eight thousand men besides guns. The Commander-inChief of all India does not talk, as Kim had heard him talk, to fools. Nor would Mahbub Ali’s tone have changed, as it did every time he mentioned the Colonel’s name, if the Colonel had been a fool. Consequently — and this set Kim to skipping — there was a mystery somewhere, and Mahbub Ali probably spied for the Colonel much as Kim had spied for Mahbub. And, like the horse-dealer, the Colonel evidently respected people who did not show themselves to be too clever.
He rejoiced that he had not betrayed his knowledge of the Colonel’s house; and when, on his return to barracks, he discovered that no cheroot-case had been left behind, he beamed with delight. Here was a man after his own heart — a tortuous13 and indirect person playing a hidden game. Well, if he could be a fool, so could Kim.
He showed nothing of his mind when Father Victor, for three long mornings, discoursed14 to him of an entirely15 new set of Gods and Godlings — notably16 of a Goddess called Mary, who, he gathered, was one with Bibi Miriam of Mahbub Ali’s theology. He betrayed no emotion when, after the lecture, Father Victor dragged him from shop to shop buying articles of outfit17, nor when envious18 drummer-boys kicked him because he was going to a superior school did he complain, but awaited the play of circumstances with an interested soul. Father Victor, good man, took him to the station, put him into an empty second-class next to Colonel Creighton’s first, and bade him farewell with genuine feeling.
‘They’ll make a man o’ you, O’Hara, at St Xavier’s — a white man, an’, I hope, a good man. They know all about your comin’, an’ the Colonel will see that ye’re not lost or mislaid anywhere on the road. I’ve given you a notion of religious matters, — at least I hope so, — and you’ll remember, when they ask you your religion, that you’re a Cath’lic. Better say Roman Cath’lic, tho’ I’m not fond of the word.’
Kim lit a rank cigarette — he had been careful to buy a stock in the bazar — and lay down to think. This solitary19 passage was very different from that joyful20 down-journey in the third-class with the lama. ‘Sahibs get little pleasure of travel,’ he reflected.
‘Hai mai! I go from one place to another as it might be a kickball. It is my Kismet. No man can escape his Kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi Miriam, and I am a Sahib.’ He looked at his boots ruefully. ‘No; I am Kim. This is the great world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?’ He considered his own identity, a thing he had never done before, till his head swam. He was one insignificant21 person in all this roaring whirl of India, going southward to he knew not what fate.
Presently the Colonel sent for him, and talked for a long time. So far as Kim could gather, he was to be diligent22 and enter the Survey of India as a chain-man. If he were very good, and passed the proper examinations, he would be earning thirty rupees a month at seventeen years old, and Colonel Creighton would see that he found suitable employment.
Kim pretended at first to understand perhaps one word in three of this talk. Then the Colonel, seeing his mistake, turned to fluent and picturesque23 Urdu and Kim was contented24. No man could be a fool who knew the language so intimately, who moved so gently and silently, and whose eyes were so different from the dull fat eyes of other Sahibs.
‘Yes, and thou must learn how to make pictures of roads and mountains and rivers, to carry these pictures in thine eye till a suitable time comes to set them upon paper. Perhaps some day, when thou art a chain-man, I may say to thee when we are working together: “Go across those hills and see what lies beyond.” Then one will say: “There are bad people living in those hills who will slay25 the chain-man if he be seen to look like a Sahib.” What then?’
Kim thought. Would it be safe to return the Colonel’s lead?
‘I would tell what that other man had said.’
‘But if I answered: “I will give thee a hundred rupees for knowledge of what is behind those hills — for a picture of a river and a little news of what the people say in the villages there”?’
‘How can I tell? I am only a boy. Wait till I am a man.’ Then, seeing the Colonel’s brow clouded, he went on: ‘But I think I should in a few days earn the hundred rupees.’
‘By what road?’
Kim shook his head resolutely26. ‘If I said how I would earn them, another man might hear and forestall27 me. It is not good to sell knowledge for nothing.’
‘Tell now.’ The Colonel held up a rupee. Kim’s hand half reached towards it, and dropped.
‘Nay, Sahib; nay. I know the price that will be paid for the answer, but I do not know why the question is asked.’
‘Take it for a gift, then,’ said Creighton, tossing it over. ‘There is a good spirit in thee. Do not let it be blunted at St Xavier’s. There are many boys there who despise the black men.’
‘Their mothers were bazar-women,’ said Kim. He knew well there is no hatred28 like that of the half-caste for his brother-inlaw.
‘True; but thou art a Sahib and the son of a Sahib. Therefore, do not at any time be led to contemn29 the black men. I have known boys newly entered into the service of the Government who feigned30 not to understand the talk or the customs of black men. Their pay was cut for ignorance. There is no sin so great as ignorance. Remember this.’
Several times in the course of the long twenty-four hours’ run south did the Colonel send for Kim, always developing this latter text.
‘We be all on one lead-rope, then,’ said Kim at last, ‘the Colonel, Mahbub Ali, and I— when I become a chain-man. He will use me as Mahbub Ali employed me, I think. That is good, if it allows me to return to the Road again. This clothing grows no easier by wear.’
When they came to the crowded Lucknow station there was no sign of the lama. He swallowed his disappointment, while the Colonel bundled him into a ticca-gharri with his neat belongings31 and despatched him alone to St Xavier’s.
‘I do not say farewell, because we shall meet again,’ he cried. ‘Again, and many times, if thou art one of good spirit. But thou art not yet tried.’
‘Not when I brought thee’ — Kim actually dared to use the turn of equals — ‘a white stallion’s pedigree that night?’
‘Much is gained by forgetting, little brother,’ said the Colonel, with a look that pierced through Kim’s shoulder-blades as he scuttled32 into the carriage.
It took him nearly five minutes to recover. Then he sniffed33 the new air appreciatively. ‘A rich city,’ he said. ‘Richer than Lahore. How good the bazars must be! Coachman, drive me a little through the bazars here.’
‘My order is to take thee to the school.’ The driver used the ‘thou’, which is rudeness when applied34 to a white man. In the clearest and most fluent vernacular35 Kim pointed36 out his error, climbed on to the box-seat, and, perfect understanding established, drove for a couple of hours up and down, estimating, comparing, and enjoying. There is no city — except Bombay, the queen of all — more beautiful in her garish37 style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river, or from the top of the Imambara looking down on the gilt38 umbrellas of the Chutter Munzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings have adorned39 her with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities, crammed40 her with pensioners41, and drenched42 her with blood. She is the centre of all idleness, intrigue43, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the claim to talk the only pure Urdu.
‘A fair city — a beautiful city.’ The driver, as a Lucknow man, was pleased with the compliment, and told Kim many astounding44 things where an English guide would have talked of the Mutiny.
‘Now we will go to the school,’ said Kim at last. The great old school of St Xavier’s in Partibus, block on block of low white buildings, stands in vast grounds over against the Gumti River, at some distance from the city.
‘What like of folk are they within?’ said Kim.
‘Young Sahibs — all devils. But to speak truth, and I drive many of them to and fro from the railway station, I have never seen one that had in him the making of a more perfect devil than thou — this young Sahib whom I am now driving.’
Naturally, for he was never trained to consider them in any way improper45, Kim had passed the time of day with one or two frivolous46 ladies at upper windows in a certain street, and naturally, in the exchange of compliments, had acquitted47 himself well. He was about to acknowledge the driver’s last insolence48, when his eye — it was growing dusk — caught a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate-pillars in the long sweep of wall.
‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Stay here. I do not go to the school at once.’
‘But what is to pay me for this coming and re-coming?’ said the driver petulantly49. ‘Is the boy mad? Last time it was a dancing-girl. This time it is a priest.’
Kim was in the road headlong, patting the dusty feet beneath the dirty yellow robe.
‘I have waited here a day and a half,’ the lama’s level voice began. ‘Nay, I had a disciple50 with me. He that was my friend at the Temple of the Tirthankars gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares in the te-rain, when thy letter was given me. Yes, I am well fed. I need nothing.’
‘But why didst thou not stay with the Kulu woman, O Holy One? In what way didst thou get to Benares? My heart has been heavy since we parted.’
‘The woman wearied me by constant flux51 of talk and requiring charms for children. I separated myself from that company, permitting her to acquire merit by gifts. She is at least a woman of open hands, and I made a promise to return to her house if need arose. Then, perceiving myself alone in this great and terrible world, I bethought me of the te-rain to Benares, where I knew one abode52 in the Tirthankars’ Temple who was a Seeker, even as I.’
‘Ah! Thy River,’ said Kim. ‘I had forgotten the River.’
‘So soon, my chela? I have never forgotten it. But when I had left thee it seemed better that I should go to the Temple and take counsel, for, look you, India is very large, and it may be that wise men before us, some two or three, have left a record of the place of our River. There is debate in the Temple of the Tirthankars on this matter; some saying one thing, and some another. They are courteous53 folk.’
‘So be it; but what dost thou do now?’
‘I acquire merit in that I help thee, my chela, to wisdom. The priest of that body of men who serve the Red Bull wrote me that all should be as I desired for thee. I sent the money to suffice for one year, and then I came, as thou seest me, to watch for thee going up into the Gates of Learning. A day and a half have I waited, not because I was led by any affection towards thee — that is no part of the Way — but, as they said at the Tirthankars’ Temple, because, money having been paid for learning, it was right that I should oversee54 the end of the matter. They resolved my doubts most clearly. I had a fear that, perhaps, I came because I wished to see thee — misguided by the Red Mist of affection. It is not so . . . Moreover, I am troubled by a dream.’
‘But surely, Holy One, thou hast not forgotten the Road and all that befell on it. Surely it was a little to see me that thou didst come?’
‘Go to Jehannum and abide56 there with thy reputationless aunt!’ Kim snarled57 over his shoulder. ‘I am all alone in this land; I know not where I go nor what shall befall me. My heart was in that letter I sent thee. Except for Mahbub Ali, and he is a Pathan, I have no friend save thee, Holy One. Do not altogether go away.’
‘I have considered that also,’ the lama replied, in a shaking voice. ‘It is manifest that from time to time I shall acquire merit if before that I have not found my River — by assuring myself that thy feet are set on wisdom. What they will teach thee I do not know, but the priest wrote me that no son of a Sahib in all India will be better taught than thou. So from time to time, therefore, I will come again. Maybe thou wilt58 be such a Sahib as he who gave me these spectacles’ — the lama wiped them elaborately — ‘in the Wonder House at Lahore. That is my hope, for he was a Fountain of Wisdom — wiser than many abbots . . . . Again, maybe thou wilt forget me and our meetings.’
‘If I eat thy bread,’ cried Kim passionately59, ‘how shall I ever forget thee?’
‘No — no.’ He put the boy aside. ‘I must go back to Benares. From time to time, now that I know the customs of letter-writers in this land, I will send thee a letter, and from time to time I will come and see thee.’
‘But whither shall I send my letters?’ wailed60 Kim, clutching at the robe, all forgetful that he was a Sahib.
‘To the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares. That is the place I have chosen till I find my River. Do not weep; for, look you, all Desire is Illusion and a new binding61 upon the Wheel. Go up to the Gates of Learning. Let me see thee go . . . Dost thou love me? Then go, or my heart cracks . . . I will come again. Surely I will come again.
The lama watched the ticca-gharri rumble62 into the compound, and strode off, snuffing between each long stride.
‘The Gates of Learning’ shut with a clang.
The country born and bred boy has his own manners and customs, which do not resemble those of any other land; and his teachers approach him by roads which an English master would not understand. Therefore, you would scarcely be interested in Kim’s experiences as a St Xavier’s boy among two or three hundred precocious63 youths, most of whom had never seen the sea. He suffered the usual penalties for breaking out of bounds when there was cholera64 in the city. This was before he had learned to write fair English, and so was obliged to find a bazar letter-writer. He was, of course, indicted65 for smoking and for the use of abuse more full-flavoured than even St Xavier’s had ever heard. He learned to wash himself with the Levitical scrupulosity66 of the native-born, who in his heart considers the Englishman rather dirty. He played the usual tricks on the patient coolies pulling the punkahs in the sleeping-rooms where the boys threshed through the hot nights telling tales till the dawn; and quietly he measured himself against his self-reliant mates.
They were sons of subordinate officials in the Railway, Telegraph, and Canal Services; of warrant-officers, sometimes retired67 and sometimes acting68 as commanders-inchief to a feudatory Rajah’s army; of captains of the Indian Marine69 Government pensioners, planters, Presidency70 shopkeepers, and missionaries71. A few were cadets of the old Eurasian houses that have taken strong root in Dhurrumtollah — Pereiras, De Souzas, and D’Silvas. Their parents could well have educated them in England, but they loved the school that had served their own youth, and generation followed sallow-hued generation at St Xavier’s. Their homes ranged from Howrah of the railway people to abandoned cantonments like Monghyr and Chunar; lost tea-gardens Shillong-way; villages where their fathers were large landholders in Oudh or the Deccan; Mission-stations a week from the nearest railway line; seaports72 a thousand miles south, facing the brazen73 Indian surf; and cinchona-plantations74 south of all. The mere75 story of their adventures, which to them were no adventures, on their road to and from school would have crisped a Western boy’s hair. They were used to jogging off alone through a hundred miles of jungle, where there was always the delightful76 chance of being delayed by tigers; but they would no more have bathed in the English Channel in an English August than their brothers across the world would have lain still while a leopard77 snuffed at their palanquin. There were boys of fifteen who had spent a day and a half on an islet in the middle of a flooded river, taking charge, as by right, of a camp of frantic78 pilgrims returning from a shrine79. There were seniors who had requisitioned a chance-met Rajah’s elephant, in the name of St Francis Xavier, when the Rains once blotted80 out the cart-track that led to their father’s estate, and had all but lost the huge beast in a quicksand. There was a boy who, he said, and none doubted, had helped his father to beat off with rifles from the veranda a rush of Akas in the days when those head-hunters were bold against lonely plantations.
And every tale was told in the even, passionless voice of the native-born, mixed with quaint81 reflections, borrowed unconsciously from native foster-mothers, and turns of speech that showed they had been that instant translated from the vernacular. Kim watched, listened, and approved. This was not insipid82, single-word talk of drummer-boys. It dealt with a life he knew and in part understood. The atmosphere suited him, and he throve by inches. They gave him a white drill suit as the weather warmed, and he rejoiced in the new-found bodily comforts as he rejoiced to use his sharpened mind over the tasks they set him. His quickness would have delighted an English master; but at St Xavier’s they know the first rush of minds developed by sun and surroundings, as they know the half-collapse that sets in at twenty-two or twenty-three.
None the less he remembered to hold himself lowly. When tales were told of hot nights, Kim did not sweep the board with his reminiscences; for St Xavier’s looks down on boys who ‘go native all-together.’ One must never forget that one is a Sahib, and that some day, when examinations are passed, one will command natives. Kim made a note of this, for he began to understand where examinations led.
Then came the holidays from August to October — the long holidays imposed by the heat and the Rains. Kim was informed that he would go north to some station in the hills behind Umballa, where Father Victor would arrange for him.
‘A barrack-school?’ said Kim, who had asked many questions and thought more.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said the master. ‘It will not do you any harm to keep you out of mischief83. You can go up with young De Castro as far as Delhi.’
Kim considered it in every possible light. He had been diligent, even as the Colonel advised. A boy’s holiday was his own property — of so much the talk of his companions had advised him, — and a barrack-school would be torment84 after St Xavier’s. Moreover — this was magic worth anything else — he could write. In three months he had discovered how men can speak to each other without a third party, at the cost of half an anna and a little knowledge. No word had come from the lama, but there remained the Road. Kim yearned85 for the caress86 of soft mud squishing up between the toes, as his mouth watered for mutton stewed87 with butter and cabbages, for rice speckled with strong scented88 cardamoms, for the saffron-tinted rice, garlic and onions, and the forbidden greasy89 sweetmeats of the bazars. They would feed him raw beef on a platter at the barrack-school, and he must smoke by stealth. But again, he was a Sahib and was at St Xavier’s, and that pig Mahbub Ali . . . No, he would not test Mahbub’s hospitality — and yet . . . He thought it out alone in the dormitory, and came to the conclusion he had been unjust to Mahbub.
The school was empty; nearly all the masters had gone away; Colonel Creighton ‘s railway pass lay in his hand, and Kim puffed90 himself that he had not spent Colonel Creighton’s or Mahbub’s money in riotous91 living. He was still lord of two rupees seven annas. His new bullock-trunk, marked ‘K. O’H.’, and bedding-roll lay in the empty sleeping-room.
‘Sahibs are always tied to their baggage,’ said Kim, nodding at them. ‘You will stay here’ He went out into the warm rain, smiling sinfully, and sought a certain house whose outside he had noted92 down some time before . . .
‘Arre’! Dost thou know what manner of women we be in this quarter? Oh, shame!’
‘Was I born yesterday?’ Kim squatted93 native-fashion on the cushions of that upper room. ‘A little dyestuff and three yards of cloth to help out a jest. Is it much to ask?’
‘Who is she? Thou art full young, as Sahibs go, for this devilry.’
‘Oh, she? She is the daughter of a certain schoolmaster of a regiment in the cantonments. He has beaten me twice because I went over their wall in these clothes. Now I would go as a gardener’s boy. Old men are very jealous.’
‘Not too black, Naikan. I would not appear to her as a hubshi (nigger).’
‘Twelve years, I think,’ said the shameless Kim. ‘Spread it also on the breast. It may be her father will tear my clothes off me, and if I am piebald —’ he laughed.
The girl worked busily, dabbing96 a twist of cloth into a little saucer of brown dye that holds longer than any walnut-juice.
‘Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe97 is me, my head is all unshaved! And he will surely knock off my turban.’
‘I am not a barber, but I will make shift. Thou wast born to be a breaker of hearts! All this disguise for one evening? Remember, the stuff does not wash away.’ She shook with laughter till her bracelets98 and anklets jingled99. ‘But who is to pay me for this? Huneefa herself could not have given thee better stuff.’
‘Trust in the Gods, my sister,’ said Kim gravely, screwing his face round as the stain dried. ‘Besides, hast thou ever helped to paint a Sahib thus before?’
‘Never indeed. But a jest is not money.’
‘It is worth much more.’
‘Child, thou art beyond all dispute the most shameless son of Shaitan that I have ever known to take up a poor girl’s time with this play, and then to say: “Is not the jest enough?” Thou wilt go very far in this world.’ She gave the dancing-girls’ salutation in mockery.
‘All one. Make haste and rough-cut my head.’ Kim shifted from foot to foot, his eyes ablaze100 with mirth as he thought of the fat days before him. He gave the girl four annas, and ran down the stairs in the likeness101 of a low-caste Hindu boy — perfect in every detail. A cookshop was his next point of call, where he feasted in extravagance and greasy luxury.
On Lucknow station platform he watched young De Castro, all covered with prickly-heat, get into a second-class compartment102. Kim patronized a third, and was the life and soul of it. He explained to the company that he was assistant to a juggler103 who had left him behind sick with fever, and that he would pick up his master at Umballa. As the occupants of the carriage changed, he varied104 this tale, or adorned it with all the shoots of a budding fancy, the more rampant105 for being held off native speech so long. In all India that night was no human being so joyful as Kim. At Umballa he got out and headed eastward106, plashing over the sodden107 fields to the village where the old soldier lived.
About this time Colonel Creighton at Simla was advised from Lucknow by wire that young O’Hara had disappeared. Mahbub Ali was in town selling horses, and to him the Colonel confided108 the affair one morning cantering round Annandale racecourse.
‘Oh, that is nothing,’ said the horse-dealer. ‘Men are like horses. At certain times they need salt, and if that salt is not in the mangers they will lick it up from the earth. He has gone back to the Road again for a while. The madrissak wearied him. I knew it would. Another time, I will take him upon the Road myself. Do not be troubled, Creighton Sahib. It is as though a polo-pony109, breaking loose, ran out to learn the game alone.’
‘Then he is not dead, think you?’
‘Fever might kill him. I do not fear for the boy otherwise. A monkey does not fall among trees.’
Next morning, on the same course, Mahbub’s stallion ranged alongside the Colonel.
‘It is as I had thought,’ said the horse-dealer. ‘He has come through Umballa at least, and there he has written a letter to me, having learned in the bazar that I was here.’
‘Read,’ said the Colonel, with a sigh of relief. It was absurd that a man of his position should take an interest in a little country-bred vagabond; but the Colonel remembered the conversation in the train, and often in the past few months had caught himself thinking of the queer, silent, self-possessed boy. His evasion110, of course, was the height of insolence, but it argued some resource and nerve.
Mahbub’s eyes twinkled as he reined111 out into the centre of the cramped112 little plain, where none could come near unseen.
‘“The Friend of the Stars, who is the Friend of all the World —”’
‘What is this?’
‘A name we give him in Lahore city. “The Friend of all the World takes leave to go to his own places. He will come back upon the appointed day. Let the box and the bedding-roll be sent for; and if there has been a fault, let the Hand of Friendship turn aside the Whip of Calamity113.” There is yet a little more, but —’
‘No matter, read.’
‘“Certain things are not known to those who eat with forks. It is better to eat with both hands for a while. Speak soft words to those who do not understand this that the return may be propitious114.” Now the manner in which that was cast is, of course, the work of the letter-writer, but see how wisely the boy has devised the matter of it so that no hint is given except to those who know!’
‘See how wise is the boy. He would go back to the Road again, as I said. Not knowing yet thy trade —’
‘I am not at all sure of that,’ the Colonel muttered.
‘He turns to me to make a peace between you. Is he not wise? He says he will return. He is but perfecting his knowledge. Think, Sahib! He has been three months at the school. And he is not mouthed to that bit. For my part, I rejoice. The pony learns the game.’
‘Ay, but another time he must not go alone.’
‘Why? He went alone before he came under the Colonel Sahib’s protection. When he comes to the Great Game he must go alone — alone, and at peril116 of his head. Then, if he spits, or sneezes, or sits down other than as the people do whom he watches, he may be slain117. Why hinder him now? Remember how the Persians say: The jackal that lives in the wilds of Mazanderan can only be caught by the hounds of Mazanderan.’
‘True. It is true, Mahbub Ali. And if he comes to no harm, I do not desire anything better. But it is great insolence on his part.’
‘He does not tell me, even, whither he goes,’ said Mahbub. ‘He is no fool. When his time is accomplished118 he will come to me. It is time the healer of pearls took him in hand. He ripens119 too quickly — as Sahibs reckon.’
This prophecy was fulfilled to the letter a month later. Mahbub had gone down to Umballa to bring up a fresh consignment120 of horses, and Kim met him on the Kalka road at dusk riding alone, begged an alms of him, was sworn at, and replied in English. There was nobody within earshot to hear Mahbub’s gasp121 of amazement122.
‘Oho! And where hast thou been?’
‘Up and down — down and up.’
‘Come under a tree, out of the wet, and tell.’
‘I stayed for a while with an old man near Umballa; anon with a household of my acquaintance in Umballa. With one of these I went as far as Delhi to the southward. That is a wondrous123 city. Then I drove a bullock for a teli [an oilman] coming north; but I heard of a great feast forward in Patiala, and thither124 went I in the company of a firework-maker. It was a great feast’ (Kim rubbed his stomach). ‘I saw Rajahs, and elephants with gold and silver trappings; and they lit all the fireworks at once, whereby eleven men were killed, my fire-work-maker among them, and I was blown across a tent but took no harm. Then I came back to the rel with a Sikh horseman, to whom I was groom125 for my bread; and so here.’
‘Shabash!’ said Mahbub Ali.
‘But what does the Colonel Sahib say? I do not wish to be beaten.’
‘The Hand of Friendship has averted126 the Whip of Calamity; but another time, when thou takest the Road it will be with me. This is too early.’
‘Late enough for me. I have learned to read and to write English a little at the madrissah. I shall soon be altogether a Sahib.’
‘Hear him!’ laughed Mahbub, looking at the little drenched figure dancing in the wet. ‘Salaam — Sahib,’ and he saluted127 ironically.
‘Well, art tired of the Road, or wilt thou come on to Umballa with me and work back with the horses?’
‘I come with thee, Mahbub Ali.’
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
poised
|
|
| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
retracing
|
|
| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
tumults
|
|
| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
4
jauntily
|
|
| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
beckoning
|
|
| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
trotted
|
|
| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
veranda
|
|
| n.走廊；阳台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
riddles
|
|
| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
dealers
|
|
| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tortuous
|
|
| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
discoursed
|
|
| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
notably
|
|
| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
outfit
|
|
| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
envious
|
|
| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
joyful
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
diligent
|
|
| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
slay
|
|
| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
resolutely
|
|
| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
forestall
|
|
| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
contemn
|
|
| v.蔑视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
feigned
|
|
| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
belongings
|
|
| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
scuttled
|
|
| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
sniffed
|
|
| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
vernacular
|
|
| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
garish
|
|
| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
gilt
|
|
| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
adorned
|
|
| [计]被修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
crammed
|
|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
pensioners
|
|
| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
drenched
|
|
| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
intrigue
|
|
| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
improper
|
|
| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
frivolous
|
|
| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
acquitted
|
|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
insolence
|
|
| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
petulantly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
disciple
|
|
| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
flux
|
|
| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
abode
|
|
| n.住处，住所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
courteous
|
|
| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
oversee
|
|
| vt.监督，管理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
whined
|
|
| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
abide
|
|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
snarled
|
|
| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
wilt
|
|
| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
wailed
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
binding
|
|
| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
rumble
|
|
| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
precocious
|
|
| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
cholera
|
|
| n.霍乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
indicted
|
|
| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
scrupulosity
|
|
| n.顾虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
67
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
acting
|
|
| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
marine
|
|
| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
presidency
|
|
| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
missionaries
|
|
| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
seaports
|
|
| n.海港( seaport的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
brazen
|
|
| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
plantations
|
|
| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
leopard
|
|
| n.豹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
frantic
|
|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
shrine
|
|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
blotted
|
|
| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
insipid
|
|
| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
yearned
|
|
| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
caress
|
|
| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
stewed
|
|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
scented
|
|
| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
greasy
|
|
| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
puffed
|
|
| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
riotous
|
|
| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
squatted
|
|
| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
dab
|
|
| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
nought
|
|
| n.／adj.无，零 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
dabbing
|
|
| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
bracelets
|
|
| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
jingled
|
|
| 喝醉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
ablaze
|
|
| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
compartment
|
|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
juggler
|
|
| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
rampant
|
|
| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
eastward
|
|
| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
sodden
|
|
| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
confided
|
|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
evasion
|
|
| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
reined
|
|
| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
cramped
|
|
| a.狭窄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
propitious
|
|
| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
avert
|
|
| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
slain
|
|
| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
ripens
|
|
| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
consignment
|
|
| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
gasp
|
|
| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
wondrous
|
|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
groom
|
|
| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
saluted
|
|
| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |