The drums and the fifes,Oh,sweetly they did play,As we marched -marched -marched -with the Mulligan Guards!It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp;for the men were route-marching with their baggage.The rippling column swung into the level -carts behind it -divided left and right,ran about like an ant-hill,and...
'But this is sorcery!'said the lama.
The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise,all spread,from the carts.Another rush of men invaded the grove,pitched a huge tent in silence,ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it,unearthed cooking-pots,pans,and bundles,which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants;and behold the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched!
'Let us go,'said the lama,sinking back afraid,as the fires twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the Mess-tent.
'Stand back in the shadow.No one can see beyond the light of a fire,'
said Kim,his eyes still on the flag.He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes.
'Look!look!look!'clucked the lama.'Yonder comes a priest.'It was Bennett,the Church of England Chaplain of the regiment,limping in dusty black.One of his flock had made some rude remarks about the Chaplain's mettle;and to abash him Bennett had marched step by step with the men that day.The black dress,gold cross on the watch-chain,the hairless face,and the soft,black wide-awake hat would have marked him as a holy man anywhere in all India.He dropped into a camp-chair by the door of the Mess-tent and slid off his boots.Three or four officers gathered round him,laughing and joking over his exploit.
'The talk of white men is wholly lacking in dignity,'said the lama,who judged only by tone.'But I considered the countenance of that priest and I think he is learned.Is it likely that he will understand our talk?
I would talk to him of my Search.'
'Never speak to a white man till he is fed,'said Kim,quoting a well-known proverb.'They will eat now,and -and I do not think they are good to beg from.Let us go back to the resting-place.After we have eaten we will come again.It certainly was a Red Bull -my Red Bull.'
They were both noticeably absent-minded when the old lady's retinue set their meal before them;so none broke their reserve,for it is not lucky to annoy guests.
'Now,'said Kim,picking his teeth,'we will return to that place;but thou,O Holy One,must wait a little way off,because thy feet are heavier than mine and I am anxious to see more of that Red Bull.'
'But how canst thou understand the talk?Walk slowly.The road is dark,'
the lama replied uneasily.
Kim put the question aside.'I marked a place near to the trees,'said he,'where thou canst sit till I call.Nay,'as the lama made some sort of protest,'remember this is my Search -the Search for my Red Bull.The sign in the Stars was not for thee.I know a little of the customs of white soldiers,and I always desire to see some new things.'
'What dost thou not know of this world?'The lama squatted obediently in a little hollow of the ground not a hundred yards from the hump of the mango-trees dark against the star-powdered sky.
'Stay till I call.'Kim flitted into the dusk.He knew that in all probability there would be sentries round the camp,and smiled to himself as he heard the thick boots of one.A boy who can dodge over the roofs of Lahore city on a moonlight night,using every little patch and corner of darkness to discomfit his pursuer,is not likely to be checked by a line of well-trained soldiers.He paid them the compliment of crawling between a couple,and,running and halting,crouching and dropping flat,worked his way toward the lighted Mess-tent where,close pressed behind the mango-tree,he waited till some chance word should give him a returnable lead.
The one thing now in his mind was further information as to the Red Bull.For aught he knew,and Kim's limitations were as curious and sudden as his expansions,the men,the nine 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.
