'It is well said,' he muttered in a changed voice.

'I go to drink water.

Keep my place.' He blundered out almost into the Englishman's arms, and was bad-worded in clumsy Urdu.
'Tum mut?
You drunk?
You mustn't bang about as though Delhi station belonged to you, my friend.' E23, not moving a muscle of his countenance, answered with a stream of the filthiest abuse, at which Kim naturally rejoiced.

It reminded him of the drummer-boys and the barrack-sweepers at Umballa in the terrible time of his first schooling.
'My good fool,' the Englishman drawled.

'Nickle-jao! Go back to your carriage.' Step by step, withdrawing deferentially and dropping his voice, the yellow Saddhu clomb back to the carriage, cursing the D.S.P.