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Updated: May 1, 2025
Still they came on, thrusting spears and javelins through every crevice and my strength began to go. I threw two tables into a gap, and brained a besieger with a sweetmeat-seller's block and smothered another, and overturned a great chest against my barricade; but what was the purpose of it all? They were fifty to one and my rampart quaked before them.
He was a brown grass-cutter, who grinned, and fondled a smoky cloth that buzzed some tribe of wild bees, captured far afield. "Ho, Lame Chicken! Do not bump me. They will sting." He came through safely; for at the same moment the musical "Cling-clank" of a sweetmeat-seller's bell turned the game into a race.
As he drummed his heels against Zam-Zammah he turned now and again from his king-of-the-castle game with little Chota Lal and Abdullah the sweetmeat-seller's son, to make a rude remark to the native policeman on guard over rows of shoes at the Museum door. The big Punjabi grinned tolerantly: he knew Kim of old. So did the water-carrier, sluicing water on the dry road from his goat-skin bag.
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