Kim | Page 5

of fashion. It was intrigue,
- of course he knew that much, as he had known all evil since he could speak, - but what
he loved was the game for its own sake - the stealthy prowl through the dark gullies and
lanes, the crawl up a waterpipe, the sights and sounds of the women's world on the flat
roofs, and the headlong flight from housetop to housetop under cover of the hot dark.
Then there were holy men, ash-smeared fakirs by their brick shrines under the trees at the
riverside, with whom he was quite familiar - greeting them as they returned from
begging-tours, and, when no one was by, eating from the same dish. The woman who
looked after him insisted with tears that he should wear European clothes - trousers, a

shirt and a battered hat. Kim found it easier to slip into Hindu or Mohammedan garb
when engaged on certain businesses. One of the young men of fashion - he who was
found dead at the bottom of a well on the night of the earthquake - had once given him a
complete suit of Hindu kit, the costume of a lowcaste street boy, and Kim stored it in a
secret place under some baulks in Nila Ram's timber-yard, beyond the Punjab High Court,
where the fragrant deodar logs lie seasoning after they have driven down the Ravi. When
there was business or frolic afoot, Kim would use his properties, returning at dawn to the
veranda, all tired out from shouting at the heels of a marriage procession, or yelling at a
Hindu festival. Sometimes there was food in the house, more often there was not, and
then Kim went out again to eat with his native friends.
As he drummed his heels against Zam-Zammah he turned now and again from his
king-of-the-castle game with little Chota Lal and Abdullah the sweetmeat-seller's son, to
make a rude remark to the native policeman on guard over rows of shoes at the Museum
door. The big Punjabi grinned tolerantly: he knew Kim of old. So did the water-carrier,
sluicing water on the dry road from his goat- skin bag. So did Jawahir Singh, the Museum
carpenter, bent over new packing-cases. So did everybody in sight except the peasants
from the country, hurrying up to the Wonder House to view the things that men made in
their own province and elsewhere. The Museum was given up to Indian arts and
manufactures, and anybody who sought wisdom could ask the Curator to explain.
'Off! Off! Let me up!' cried Abdullah, climbing up Zam-Zammah's wheel.
'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!'
'Nay, nay,' said the policeman, shaking his head. 'I do not understand your talk.' The
constable spoke Punjabi. 'O Friend of all the World, what does he say?'
'Send him hither,' said Kim, dropping from Zam-Zammah, flourishing his bare heels. 'He
is a foreigner, and thou art a buffalo.'
The man turned helplessly and drifted towards the boys. He was old, and his woollen
gaberdine still reeked of the stinking artemisia of the mountain passes.
'O Children, what is that big house?' he said in very fair Urdu.

'The Ajaib-Gher, the Wonder House!' Kim gave him no title - such as Lala or Mian. He
could not divine the man's creed.
'Ah! The Wonder House! Can any enter?'
'It is written above the door - all can enter.'
'Without payment?'
'I go in and