'All one. Benares then. Quick: she comes!'

'Take thou the purse.'

The lama, not so well used to trains as he had pre-
tended, started as the 3.25 A.M. south bound roared
in. The sleepers sprung to life, and the station filled
with clamour and shoutings, cries of water and sweet-
meat venders, shouts of native policemen, and shrill
yells of women gathering up their baskets, their fam-
ilies, and their husbands.

'It is the train -- only the te-rain. It will not
come here. Wait!' Amazed at the lama's immense
simplicity (he had handed him a small bag full of
rupees), Kim asked and paid for a ticket to Umballa.
A sleepy clerk grunted and flung out a ticket to the
next station, just six miles distant.

'Nay,' said Kim, scanning it with a grin. 'This
may serve for farmers, but I live in the city of
Lahore. It was cleverly done, babu. Now give the
ticket to Umballa.'

The babu scowled and dealt the proper ticket.

'Now another to Amritzar,' said Kim, who had no
notion of spending Mahbub Ali's money on anything
so crude as a paid ride to Umballa. 'The price is so
much. The small money in return is just so much.
I know the ways of the te-rain.... Never did
yogi need chela as thou dost,' he went on merrily to
the bewildered lama. 'They would have flung thee
out at Mian Mir but for me. This way! Come!' He

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