CHAPTER 7.
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised With idiot moons and stars retracing stars?
Creep thou betweene--thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fraye (By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway); Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say Which planet mends thy threadbare fate or mars?
Sir John Christie.
In the afternoon the red-faced schoolmaster told Kim that he had been 'struck off the strength', which conveyed no meaning to him till he was ordered to go away and play.

Then he ran to the bazar, and found the young letter-writer to whom he owed a stamp.
'Now I pay,' said Kim royally, 'and now I need another letter to be written.' 'Mahbub Ali is in Umballa,' said the writer jauntily.

He was, by virtue of his office, a bureau of general misinformation.
'This is not to Mahbub, but to a priest.

Take thy pen and write quickly.

To Teshoo Lama, the Holy One from Bhotiyal seeking for a River, who is now in the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares.