Kim glanced from one face to the other, and drew his own conclusions.
'Where is the money ?' he whispered, beckoning the old man off into the darkness.
'In my bosom.

Where else ?' 'Give it me.

Quietly and swiftly give it me.' 'But why?
Here is no ticket to buy.' 'Am I thy chela, or am I not?
Do I not safeguard thy old feet about the ways?
Give me the money and at dawn I will return it.' He slipped his hand above the lama's girdle and brought away the purse.
'Be it so--be it so.' The old man nodded his head.

'This is a great and terrible world.

I never knew there were so many men alive in it.' Next morning the priest was in a very bad temper, but the lama was quite happy; and Kim had enjoyed a most interesting evening with the old man, who brought out his cavalry sabre and, balancing it on his dry knees, told tales of the Mutiny and young captains thirty years in their graves, till Kim dropped off to sleep.
'Certainly the air of this country is good,' said the lama.