There is a good lock to the door.' The report in its unmistakable St Xavier's running script, and the brown, yellow, and lake-daubed map, was on hand a few years ago (a careless clerk filed it with the rough notes of E's second Seistan survey), but by now the pencil characters must be almost illegible.

Kim translated it, sweating under the light of an oil-lamp, to Mahbub, the second day of their return-journey.
The Pathan rose and stooped over his dappled saddle-bags.
'I knew it would be worthy a dress of honour, and so I made one ready,' he said, smiling.

'Were I Amir of Afghanistan (and some day we may see him), I would fill thy mouth with gold.' He laid the garments formally at Kim's feet.

There was a gold-embroidered Peshawur turban-cap, rising to a cone, and a big turban-cloth ending in a broad fringe of gold.

There was a Delhi embroidered waistcoat to slip over a milky white shirt, fastening to the right, ample and flowing; green pyjamas with twisted silk waist-string; and that nothing might be lacking, russia-leather slippers, smelling divinely, with arrogantly curled tips.
'Upon a Wednesday, and in the morning, to put on new clothes is auspicious,' said Mahbub solemnly.