barrack-room. But that he had written to Mahbub Ali, Kim would have
been almost depressed. The indifference of native crowds he was
used to; but this strong loneliness among white men preyed on him.
He was grateful when, in the course of the afternoon, a big soldier
took him over to Father Victor, who lived in another wing across
another dusty parade-ground. The priest was reading an English
letter written in purple ink. He looked at Kim more curiously than
ever.

'An' how do you like it, my son, as far as you've gone? Not much,
eh? It must be hard - very hard on a wild animal. Listen now. I've
an amazin' epistle from your friend.'

'Where is he? Is he well? Oah! If he knows to write me letters, it
is all right.'

'You're fond of him then?'

'Of course I am fond of him. He was fond of me.'

'It seems so by the look of this. He can't write English, can he?'

'Oah no. Not that I know, but of course he found a letter-writer
who can write English verree well, and so he wrote. I do hope you
understand.'

'That accounts for it. D'you know anything about his money
affairs?' Kim's face showed that he did not.

'How can I tell?'