Oh ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day, Be gentle when the heathen pray To Buddha at Kamakura!
He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gherâthe Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that âfire-breathing dragon,â hold the Punjab; for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conquerorâs loot.
There was some justification for Kim,âhe had kicked Lala Dinanathâs boy off the trunnionsbu,âsince the English held the Punjab and Kim was English. Though he was burned black as any native; though he spoke the vernacular by preference, and his mother-tongue in a clipped uncertain sing-song; though he consorted on terms of perfect equality with the small boys of the bazar; Kim was whiteâa poor white of the very poorest. The half-caste woman who looked after him (she smoked opium, and pretended to keep a second-hand furniture shop by the square where the cheap cabs wait) told the missionaries that she was Kimâs motherâs sister; but his mother had been nursemaid in a colonelâs family and had married Kimball OâHara, a young colour-sergeant of the Mavericks, an Irish regiment. He afterwards took a post on the Sind, Punjab, and Delhi railway, and his regiment went home without him. The wife died of cholera in Ferozepore, and OâHara fell to drink and loafing up and down the line with the keen-eyed three-year-old baby. Societies and chaplains anxious for the child, tried to catch him, but OâHara drifted away, till he came across the woman who took opium and learned the taste from her, and died as poor whites die in India. His estate at death consisted of three papersâone he called his âne varieturâ because those words were written below his signature thereon, and another his âclearance-certificate.â The third was Kimâs birth-certificate. Those things, he was used to say, in his glorious opium hours, would yet make little Kimball a man. On no account was Kim to part with them, for they belonged to a great piece of magicâsuch magic as men practised over yonder behind the Museum, in the big blue and white Jadoo-Gherâthe Magic House, as we name the Masonic Lodge. It would, he said, all come right some day, and Kimâs horn would be exalted between pillarsâmonstrous pillarsâof beauty and strength. The Colonel himself, riding on a horse, at the head of the finest regiment in the world, would attend to Kim,âlittle Kim that should have been better off than his father. Nine hundred first-class devils, whose god was a Red Bull on a green field, would attend to Kim, if they had not forgotten OâHaraâpoor OâHara that was gang-foreman on the Ferozepore line. Then he would weep bitterly in the broken rush chair on the verandah. So it came about after his death that the woman sewed parchment, paper, and birth-certificate into a leather amulet-case which she strung round Kimâs neck.
âAnd some day,â she said, confusedly remembering OâHaraâs prophecies, âthere will come for you a great Red Bull on a green field, and the Colonel riding on his tall horse, yes, andââdropping into Englishâânine hundred devils.â
âAh,â said Kim, âI shall remember. A Red Bull and a Colonel on a horse will come, but first, my father said, come the two men making ready the ground for these matters. That is how, my father said, they always did; and it is always so when men work magic.â
If the woman had sent Kim up to the local Jadoo-Gher with those papers, he would, of course, have been taken over by the Provincial Lodge and sent to the Masonic Orphanage in the Hills; but what she had heard of magic she distrusted. Kim, too, held views of his own. As he reached the years of indiscretion, he learned to avoid missionaries and white men of serious aspect who asked who he was, and what he did. For Kim did nothing with an immense success. True, he knew the wonderful walled city of Lahore from the Delhi Gate to the outer Fort Ditch; was hand in glove with men who led lives stranger than anything Haroun al Raschid dreamed of; and he lived in a life wild as that of the Arabian Nights, but missionaries and secretaries of charitable societies could not see the beauty of it. His nickname through the wards was âLittle Friend of all the Worldâ; and very often, being lithe and inconspicuous, he executed commissions by night on the crowded housetops for sleek and shiny young men of fashion. It was intrigue, of course,âhe knew that much, as he had known all evil since he could speak,âbut what he loved was the game for its own sakeâthe stealthy prowl through the dark gullies and lanes, the crawl up a water-pipe, the sights and sounds of the womenâs world on the flat roofs, and the headlong flight from housetop to housetop under cover of the hot dark. Then there were holy men, ash-smeared