Trent was too thoroughly astonished to resent either the blow or the fierce words. He looked up into his aggressor's face in blank surprise.
“I only looked at it,” he muttered. “It was lying on the floor.”
“Looked at it! You looked at it! Like your confounded impertinence, sir! Who are you to look at her! If ever I catch you prying into my concerns again, I'll shoot you—by Heaven I will!”
Trent laughed sullenly, and, having finished eating, lit his pipe.
“Your concerns are of no interest to me,” he said shortly; “keep 'em to yourself—and look here, old 'un, keep your hands off me! I ain't a safe man to hit let me tell you. Now sit down and cool off! I don't want any more of your tantrums.”
Then there was a long silence between the two men. Monty sat where Trent had been earlier in the night at the front of the open hut, his eyes fixed upon the ever-rising moon, his face devoid of intelligence, his eyes dim. The fire of the last few minutes had speedily burnt out. His half-soddened brain refused to answer to the sudden spasm of memory which had awakened a spark of the former man. If he had thoughts at all, they hung around that brandy bottle. The calm beauty of the African night could weave no spell upon him. A few feet behind, Trent, by the light of the moon, was practising tricks with a pack of greasy cards. By and by a spark of intelligence found its way into Monty's brain. He turned round furtively.
“Trent,” he said, “this is slow! Let us have a friendly game—you and I.”
Trent yawned.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Single Poker or Euchre, eh?”
“I do not mind,” Monty replied affably. “Just which you prefer.”
“Single Poker, then,” Trent said.
“And the stakes?”
“We've nothing left to play for,” Trent answered gloomily, “except cartridges.”
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