'There be ten thousand such nuns in Amritzar alone. Return,
old man, or the te-rain may depart without thee,' cried the
banker.

'Not only was it sufficient for the ticket, but for a little food
also,' said Kim, leaping to his place. 'Now eat, Holy One. Look.
Day comes!'

Golden, rose, saffron, and pink, the morning mists smoked away
across the flat green levels. All the rich Punjab lay out in the
splendour of the keen sun. The lama flinched a little as the
telegraph-posts swung by.

'Great is the speed of the te-rain,' said the banker, with a
patronizing grin. 'We have gone farther since Lahore than thou
couldst walk in two days: at even, we shall enter Umballa.'

'And that is still far from Benares,' said the lama wearily,
mumbling over the cakes that Kim offered. They all unloosed their
bundles and made their morning meal. Then the banker, the
cultivator, and the soldier prepared their pipes and wrapped the
compartment in choking, acrid smoke, spitting and coughing and
enjoying themselves. The Sikh and the cultivator's wife chewed
pan; the lama took snuff and told his beads, while Kim,
cross-legged, smiled over the comfort of a full stomach.

'What rivers have ye by Benares?' said the lama of a sudden to
the carriage at large.