I'd keep myself decent; ain't you a silly old fool, now? We've made our piles, you can go back and take her a fortune, give her jewels and pretty dresses, and all the fal-de-lals that women love. You'll never do it if you muddle yourself up with that stuff. Pull yourself together, old 'un. Chuck the drink till we've seen this thing through at any rate!”
“You don't know my little girl,” Monty muttered. “How should you? She'd care little for money or gewgaws, but she'd break her heart to see her old father—come to this—broken down—worthless—a hopeless, miserable wretch. It's too late. Trent, I'll have just a glass I think. It will do me good. I have been fretting, Trent, you see how pale I am.”
He staggered towards the bottle. Trent watched him, interfering no longer. With a little chuckle of content he seized upon it and, too fearful of interference from Trent to wait for a glass, raised it to his lips. There was a gurgling in his throat—a little spasm as he choked, and released his lips for a moment. Then the bottle slid from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and the liquor oozed away in a little brown stream; even Trent dropped his pack of cards and sprang up startled. For bending down under the sloping roof was a European, to all appearance an Englishman, in linen clothes and white hat. It was the man for whom they had waited.
CHAPTER IV
Trent moved forward and greeted the newcomer awkwardly. “You're Captain Francis,” he said. “We've been waiting for you.”
The statement appeared to annoy the Explorer. He looked nervously at the two men and about the hut.
“I don't know how the devil you got to hear of my coming, or what you want with me,” he answered brusquely. “Are you both English?”
Trent assented, waving his hand towards his companion in introductory fashion.
“That's my pal, Monty,” he said. “We're both English right enough.”
Monty raised a flushed face and gazed with bloodshot eyes at the man who was surveying him so calmly. Then he gave a little gurgling cry and turned away. Captain Francis started and moved a step towards him. There was a puzzled look in his face—as though he were making an effort to recall something familiar.
“What is the matter with him?” he asked Trent.
“Drink!”
“Then why the devil don't you see that he doesn't get too much?” the newcomer said sharply. “Don't you know what it means in this climate? Why, he's on the high-road to a fever now. Who on this earth is it he reminds me of?”
Trent laughed shortly.
“There's never a man in Buckomari—no, nor in all Africa—could keep Monty from the drink,” he said. “Live with him for a month and try it. It wouldn't suit you—I don't think.”
He glanced disdainfully at the smooth face and careful dress of their visitor, who bore the inspection with a kindly return of contempt.
“I've no desire to try,” he said; “but he reminds me very strongly of some one I knew in England. What do you call him—Monty?”
Trent nodded.
“Never heard any other name,” he said.
“Have you ever heard him speak of England?” Francis asked.
Trent hesitated. What was this newcomer to him that he should give away his pal? Less than nothing! He hated the fellow already, with a rough, sensitive man's contempt of a bearing and manners far above his own.
“Never. He don't talk.”
Captain Francis moved a step towards the huddled-up figure breathing heavily upon the floor, but Trent, leaning over, stopped him.
“Let him be,” he said gruffly. “I know enough of him to be sure that he needs no one prying and ferreting into his affairs. Besides, it isn't safe for us to be dawdling about here. How many soldiers have you brought with you?”
“Two hundred,” Captain Francis answered shortly.
Trent whistled.
“We're all right for a bit, then,” he said; “but it's a pretty sort of a picnic you're on, eh?”
“Never mind my business,” Captain Francis answered curtly; “what about yours? Why have you been hanging about here for me?”
“I'll show you,” Trent answered, taking a paper from his knapsack. “You see, it's like this. There are two places near this show where I've found gold. No use blowing about it down at Buckomari—the fellows there haven't the nerve of a kitten. This cursed climate has sapped it all out of them, I reckon. Monty and I clubbed together and bought presents for his Majesty, the boss here, and Monty wrote out this little document—sort of concession to us to sink mines and work them, you see. The old buffer signed it like winking, directly he spotted the rum, but we ain't quite happy about it; you see, it ain't to be supposed that he's got a conscience, and there's only us saw him put his mark there. We'll have to raise money to work the thing upon this, and maybe there'll be difficulties. So what we thought was this. Here's an English officer coming; let's get him to witness it, and then if the King don't go on the square, why, it's a Government matter.”
Captain Francis lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two.
“I don't quite see,” he said, “why we should risk a row for the sake of you two.”
Trent snorted.
“Look here,” he said; “I suppose you know your business. You don't want me to tell you that a decent excuse for having a row with this old Johnny is about the best thing that could happen to you. He's a bit too near the borders of civilisation to be a decent savage. Sooner or later some one will have to take him under their protection. If you don't do it, the French will. They're hanging round now looking out for an opportunity. Listen!”
Both men moved instinctively towards the open part of the hut and looked across towards the village. Up from the little open space in front of the King's dwelling-house leaped a hissing bright flame; they had kindled a fire, and black forms of men, stark naked and wounding themselves with spears, danced around it and made the air hideous with discordant cries. The King himself, too drunk to stand, squatted upon the ground with an empty bottle by his side. A breath of wind brought a strong, noxious odour to the two men who stood watching. Captain Francis puffed hard at his cigarette.
“Ugh!” he muttered; “beastly!”
“You may take my word for it,” Trent said gruffly, “that if your two hundred soldiers weren't camped in the bush yonder, you and I and poor Monty would be making sport for them to-night. Now come. Do you think a quarrel with that crew is a serious thing to risk?”
“In the interests of civilisation,” Captain Francis answered, with a smile, “I think not.”
“I don't care how you put it,” Trent answered shortly. “You soldiers all prate of the interests of civilisation. Of course it's all rot. You want the land—you
