’When I return, having found the River, I will bring thee a written picture of the Padma Samthora such as I used to make on silk at the lamassery.  Yes — and of the Wheel of Life,’ he chuckled, ‘for we be craftsmen together, thou and I.’

The Curator would have detained him:  they are few in the world who still have the secret of the conventional brush-pen Buddhist pictures which are, as it were, half written and half drawn.  But the lama strode out, head high in air, and pausing an instant before the great statue of a Bodhisat in meditation, brushed through the turnstiles.

Kim followed like a shadow.  What he had overheard excited him wildly.  This man was entirely new to all his experience, and he meant to investigate further, precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city.  The lama was his trove, and he purposed to take possession.  Kim’s mother had been Irish, too.

The old man halted by Zam-Zammah and looked round till his eye fell on Kim.  The inspiration of his pilgrimage had left him for awhile, and he felt old, forlorn, and very empty.

‘Do not sit under that gun,’ said the policeman loftily.

‘Huh!  Owl!’ was Kim’s retort on the lama’s behalf.  ’Sit under that gun if it please thee.  When didst thou steal the milkwoman’s slippers, Dunnoo?’

That was an utterly unfounded charge sprung on the spur of the moment, but it silenced Dunnoo, who knew that Kim’s clear yell could call up legions of bad bazaar boys if need arose.

‘And whom didst thou worship within?’ said Kim affably, squatting in the shade beside the lama.

‘I worshipped none, child.  I bowed before the Excellent Law.’

Kim accepted this new God without emotion.  He knew already a few score.

‘And what dost thou do?’

’I beg.  I remember now it is long since I have eaten or drunk.  What is the custom of charity in this town?  In silence, as we do of Tibet, or speaking aloud?’

‘Those who beg in silence starve in silence,’ said Kim, quoting a native proverb.  The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in far-away Kulu.  Kim watched head to one side, considering and interested.

’Give me the bowl.  I know the people of this city — all who are charitable.  Give, and I will bring it back filled.’

Simply as a child the old man handed him the bowl.

‘Rest, thou.  I know the people.’

He trotted off to the open shop of a kunjri, a low-caste vegetable-seller, which lay opposite the belt-tramway line down the Motee Bazar.  She knew Kim of old.

‘Oho, hast thou turned yogi with thy begging-bowl?’ she cried.

‘Nay.’ said Kim proudly.  ’There is a new priest in the city — a man such as I have never seen.’

‘Old priest — young tiger,’ said the woman angrily.  ’I am tired of new priests!  They settle on our wares like flies.  Is the father of my son a well of charity to give to all who ask?’