the tent-pole lantern, then shaking him severely cried: 'What were
you doing? You're a thief. Choor? Mallum?' His Hindustani was very
limited, and the ruffled and disgusted Kim intended to keep to the
character laid down for him. As he recovered his breath he was
inventing a beautifully plausible tale of his relations to some
scullion, and at the same time keeping a keen eye on and a little
under the Chaplain's left arm-pit. The chance came; he ducked for
the doorway, but a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck,
snapping the amulet-string and closing on the amulet.

'Give it me. O, give it me. Is it lost? Give me the papers.'

The words were in English - the tinny, saw-cut English of the
native-bred, and the Chaplain jumped.

'A scapular,' said he, opening his hand. 'No, some sort of heathen
charm. Why - why, do you speak English? Little boys who steal are
beaten. You know that?'

'I do not - I did not steal.' Kim danced in agony like a terrier at
a lifted stick. 'Oh, give it me. It is my charm. Do not thieve it
from me.'

The Chaplain took no heed, but, going to the tent door, called
aloud. A fattish, clean-shaven man appeared.

'I want your advice, Father Victor,' said Bennett. 'I found this
boy in the dark outside the Mess-tent. Ordinarily, I should have
chastised him and let him go, because I believe him to be a thief.
But it seems he talks English, and he attaches some sort of value