His Hindustani was very limited , and the ruffled and disgusted Kim intended to keep to the character laid down for him . As he recovered his breath he was inventing a beautifully plausible tale of his relations to some scullion , and at the same time keeping a keen eye on and a little under the Chaplain 's left arm-pit . The chance came ; he ducked for the doorway , but a long arm shot out and clutched at his neck , snapping the amulet-string and closing on the amulet . ` Give it me . O , give it me . Is it lost ? Give me the papers . ' The words were in English -- the tinny , saw-cut English of the native-bred , and the Chaplain jumped . ' A scapular , ' said he , opening his hand . ` No , some sort of heathen charm . Why -- why , do you speak English ? Little boys who steal are beaten . You know that ? ' ' I do not -- I did not steal . ' Kim danced in agony like a terrier at a lifted stick . ` Oh , give it me . It is my charm . Do not thieve it from me . ' The Chaplain took no heed , but , going to the tent door , called aloud . A fattish , clean-shaven man appeared . '
I want your advice , Father Victor , ' XXXXX Bennett . '
Is going inventing know lost opening recovered said shot snapping