ore fools; but have a care for thine
eyes. Is there a film before them already? I save the babe, and for
return thou--oh, shameless!' The man flinched at the direct gaze, for
Kim was wholly in earnest.

'Shall I curse thee, or shall I--' He picked up the outer cloth of the
bundle and threw it over the bowed head. 'Dare so much as to think a
wish to see, and--and--even I cannot save thee. Sit! Be dumb!'

'I am blind--dumb. Forbear to curse! Co--come, child; we will play a
game of hiding. Do not, for my sake, look from under the cloth.'

'I see hope,' said E23. 'What is thy scheme?'

'This comes next,' said Kim, plucking the thin body-shirt. E23
hesitated, with all a North-West man's dislike of baring his body.

'What is caste to a cut throat?' said Kim, rending it to the waist.
'We must make thee a yellow Saddhu all over. Strip--strip swiftly, and
shake thy hair over thine eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a
caste-mark on thy forehead.' He drew from his bosom the little Survey
paint-box and a cake of crimson lake.

'Art thou only a beginner?' said E23, labouring literally for the dear
life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the
loin-cloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared
brow.

'But two days entered to the Game, brother,' Kim replied. 'Smear more
ash on the bosom.'

'Hast thou met--a physician of sick pearls?' He switched out his long,
tight-rolled turban-cloth and, with swiftest hands, rolled it over and
under about his loins into the intricate devices of a Saddhu's cincture.

'Hah! Dost thou know his touch, then? He was my teacher for a while.
We must bar thy legs. Ash cures wounds. Smear it again.'

'I was his pride once, but thou art almost better. The Gods are kind
to us! Give me that.'

It was a tin box of opium pills among the rubbish of the Jat's bundle.
E23 gulped down a half handful. 'They are good against hunger, fear,
and chill. And they make the eyes red too,' he explained. 'Now I
shall have heart to play the Game. We lack only a Saddhu's tongs.
What of the old clothes?'

Kim rolled them small, and stuffed them into the slack folds of his
tunic. With a yellow-ochre paint cake he smeared the legs and the
breast, great streaks against the background of flour, ash, and
turmeric.

'The blood on them is enough to hang thee, brother.'

'Maybe; but no need to throw them out of the window ... It is
finished.' His voice