“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
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