'Thy father was a pastry-cook, Thy mother stole the ghi" sang
Kim. 'All Mussalmans fell off Zam-Zammah long ago!'

'Let me up!' shrilled little Chota Lal in his gilt-embroidered
cap. His father was worth perhaps half a million sterling, but
India is the only democratic land in the world.

'The Hindus fell off Zam-Zammah too. The Mussalmans pushed them
off. Thy father was a pastry-cook -'

He stopped; for there shuffled round the corner, from the roaring
Motee Bazar, such a man as Kim, who thought he knew all castes,
had never seen. He was nearly six feet high, dressed in fold upon
fold of dingy stuff like horse-blanketing, and not one fold of it
could Kim refer to any known trade or profession. At his belt
hung a long open-work iron pencase and a wooden rosary such as
holy men wear. On his head was a gigantic sort of tam-o'-shanter.
His face was yellow and wrinkled, like that of Fook Shing, the
Chinese bootmaker in the bazar. His eyes turned up at the corners
and looked like little slits of onyx.

'Who is that?' said Kim to his companions.

'Perhaps it is a man,' said Abdullah, finger in mouth, staring.

'Without doubt.' returned Kim; 'but he is no man of India that I
have ever seen.'

'A priest, perhaps,' said Chota Lal, spying the rosary. 'See! He
goes into the Wonder House!'