Kim pointed - he could not speak - to Father Victor's wing, all
staring white near by.

'Perhaps he will make a good soldier,' said Mahbub reflectively.

'He will make a good orderly at least. I sent him to deliver a
message once from Lahore. A message concerning the pedigree of a
white stallion.'

Here was deadly insult on deadlier injury - and the Sahib to whom
he had so craftily given that war-waking letter heard it all. Kim
beheld Mahbub Ali frying in flame for his treachery, but for
himself he saw one long grey vista of barracks, schools, and
barracks again. He gazed imploringly at the clear-cut face in which
there was no glimmer of recognition; but even at this extremity it
never occurred to him to throw himself on the white man's mercy or
to denounce the Afghan. And Mahbub stared deliberately at the
Englishman, who stared as deliberately at Kim, quivering and
tongue-tied.

'My horse is well trained,' said the dealer. 'Others would have
kicked, Sahib.'

'Ah,' said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony's damp withers
with his whip-butt. 'Who makes the boy a soldier?'

'He says the Regiment that found him, and especially the Padre-
sahib of that regiment.