The jar had been smashed — yess, smashed — not the native word, he would not think of that — but smashed — into fifty pieces, and twice three was six, and thrice three was nine, and four times three was twelve.  He clung desperately to the repetition.  The shadow-outline of the jar cleared like a mist after rubbing eyes.  There were the broken shards; there was the spilt water drying in the sun, and through the cracks of the veranda showed, all ribbed, the white house-wall below — and thrice twelve was thirty-six!

‘Look!  Is it coming into shape?’ asked Lurgan Sahib.

‘But it is smashed — smashed,’ he gasped — Lurgan Sahib had been muttering softly for the last half-minute.  Kim wrenched his head aside.  ‘Look!  Dekho!  It is there as it was there.’

‘It is there as it was there,’ said Lurgan, watching Kim closely while the boy rubbed his neck.  ’But you are the first of many who has ever seen it so.’  He wiped his broad forehead.

‘Was that more magic?’ Kim asked suspiciously.  The tingle had gone from his veins; he felt unusually wide awake.

’No, that was not magic.  It was only to see if there was — a flaw in a jewel.  Sometimes very fine jewels will fly all to pieces if a man holds them in his hand, and knows the proper way.  That is why one must be careful before one sets them.  Tell me, did you see the shape of the pot?’

’For a little time.  It began to grow like a flower from the ground.’

‘And then what did you do?  I mean, how did you think?’

’Oah!  I knew it was broken, and so, I think, that was what I thought — and it was broken.’

‘Hm!  Has anyone ever done that same sort of magic to you before?’

‘If it was,’ said Kim ’do you think I should let it again?  I should run away.’

‘And now you are not afraid — eh?’

‘Not now.’

Lurgan Sahib looked at him more closely than ever.  ’I shall ask Mahbub Ali — not now, but some day later,’ he muttered.  ’I am pleased with you — yes; and I am pleased with you — no.  You are the first that ever saved himself.  I wish I knew what it was that ...  But you are right.  You should not tell that — not even to me.’

He turned into the dusky gloom of the shop, and sat down at the table, rubbing his hands softly.  A small, husky sob came from behind a pile of carpets.  It was the Hindu child obediently facing towards the wall.  His thin shoulders worked with grief.

’Ah!  He is jealous, so jealous.  I wonder if he will try to poison me again in my breakfast, and make me cook it twice.

‘Kubbee — kubbee nahin [Never — never.  No!]’, came the broken answer.

‘And whether he will kill this other boy?’

‘Kubbee — kubbee nahin.’

‘What do you think he will do?’ He turned suddenly on Kim.

’Oah!  I do not know.  Let him go, perhaps.  Why did he want to poison you?’