Trent took out a plate and helped himself.
“All right,” he said. “Be off now. We'll go to-morrow before these towsly-headed beauties are awake.”
Sam nodded and waddled off. Trent threw a biscuit and hit his companion on the cheek.
“Here, wake up, Monty!” he exclaimed. “Supper's come from the royal kitchen. Bring your plate and tuck in!”
Monty struggled to his feet and came meekly towards where the pot stood simmering upon the ground.
“I'm not hungry, Trent,” he said, “but I am very thirsty, very thirsty indeed. My throat is all parched. I am most uncomfortable. Really I think your behaviour with regard to the brandy is most unkind and ungenerous; I shall be ill, I know I shall. Won't you—”
“No, I won't,” Trent interrupted. “Now shut up all that rot and eat something.”
“I have no appetite, thank you,” Monty answered, with sulky dignity.
“Eat something, and don't be a silly ass!” Trent insisted. “We've a hard journey before us, and you'll need all the strength in your carcase to land in Buckomari again. Here, you've dropped some of your precious rubbish.”
Trent stooped forward and picked up what seemed to him at first to be a piece of cardboard from the ground. He was about to fling it to its owner, when he saw that it was a photograph. It was the likeness of a girl, a very young girl apparently, for her hair was still down her back and her dress was scarcely of the orthodox length. It was not particularly well taken, but Trent had never seen anything like it before. The lips were slightly parted, the deep eyes were brimming with laughter, the pose was full of grace, even though the girl's figure was angular. Trent had seen as much as this, when he felt the smart of a sudden blow upon the cheek, the picture was snatched from his hand, and Monty—his face convulsed with anger—glowered fiercely upon him.
“You infernal young blackguard! You impertinent meddling blockhead! How dare you presume to look at that photograph! How dare you, sir! How dare you!”
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