‘What dost thou not know of this world?’ The lama squatted obediently in a little hollow of the ground not a hundred yards from the hump of the mango-trees dark against the star-powdered sky.

‘Stay till I call.’  Kim flitted into the dusk.  He knew that in all probability there would be sentries round the camp, and smiled to himself as he heard the thick boots of one.  A boy who can dodge over the roofs of Lahore city on a moonlight night, using every little patch and corner of darkness to discomfit his pursuer, is not likely to be checked by a line of well-trained soldiers.  He paid them the compliment of crawling between a couple, and, running and halting, crouching and dropping flat, worked his way toward the lighted Mess-tent where, close pressed behind the mango-tree, he waited till some chance word should give him a returnable lead.

The one thing now in his mind was further information as to the Red Bull.  For aught he knew, and Kim’s limitations were as curious and sudden as his expansions, the men, the nine hundred thorough devils of his father’s prophecy, might pray to the beast after dark, as Hindus pray to the Holy Cow.  That at least would be entirely right and logical, and the padre with the gold cross would be therefore the man to consult in the matter.  On the other hand, remembering sober-faced padres whom he had avoided in Lahore city, the priest might be an inquisitive nuisance who would bid him learn.  But had it not been proven at Umballa that his sign in the high heavens portended War and armed men?  Was he not the Friend of the Stars as well as of all the World, crammed to the teeth with dreadful secrets?  Lastly — and firstly as the undercurrent of all his quick thoughts -this adventure, though he did not know the English word, was a stupendous lark — a delightful continuation of his old flights across the housetops, as well as the fulfilment of sublime prophecy.  He lay belly-flat and wriggled towards the Mess-tent door, a hand on the amulet round his neck.

It was as he suspected.  The Sahibs prayed to their God; for in the centre of the Mess-table — its sole ornament when they were on the line of march — stood a golden bull fashioned from old-time loot of the Summer Palace at Pekin — a red-gold bull with lowered head, ramping upon a field of Irish green.  To him the Sahibs held out their glasses and cried aloud confusedly.

Now the Reverend Arthur Bennett always left Mess after that toast, and being rather tired by his march his movements were more abrupt than usual.  Kim, with slightly raised head, was still staring at his totem on the table, when the Chaplain stepped on his right shoulder-blade.  Kim flinched under the leather, and, rolling sideways, brought down the Chaplain, who, ever a man of action, caught him by the throat and nearly choked the life out of him.  Kim then kicked him desperately in the stomach.  Mr Bennett gasped and doubled up, but without relaxing his grip, rolled over again, and silently hauled Kim to his own tent.  The Mavericks were incurable practical jokers; and it occurred to the Englishman that silence was best till he had made complete inquiry.