gaunt, ragged, not too clean, and back at Monty—“you want gold—honestly if you can get it, if not—well, it is not too wise to ask. Your partnership is a little mysterious, isn't it—with a man like that? Out of your magnificent morality I trust that he may get his share.”
Trent flushed a brick-red. An angry answer trembled upon his lips, but Oom Sam, white and with his little fat body quivering with fear, came hurrying up to them in the broad track of the moonlight.
“King he angry,” he called out to them breathlessly. “Him mad drunk angry. He say white men all go away, or he fire bush and use the poisoned arrow. Me off! Got bearers waiting.”
“If you go before we've finished,” Trent said, “I'll not pay you a penny. Please yourself.”
The little fat man trembled—partly with rage, partly with fear.
“You stay any longer,” he said, “and King him send after you and kill on way home. White English soldiers go Buckomari with you?”
Trent shook his head.
“Going the other way,” he said, “down to Wana Hill.”
Oom Sam shook his head vigorously.
“Now you mind,” he said; “I tell you, King send after you. Him blind mad.”
Oom Sam scuttled away. Captain Francis looked thoughtful. “That little fat chap may be right,” he remarked. “If I were you I'd get out of this sharp. You see, I'm going the other way. I can't help you.”
Trent set his teeth.
“I've spent a good few years trying to put a bit together, and this is the first chance I've had,” he said; “I'm going to have you back me as a British subject on that concession. We'll go down into the village now if you're ready.”
“I'll get an escort,” Francis said. “Best to impress 'em a bit, I think. Half a minute.”
He stepped back into the hut and looked steadfastly at the man who was still lying doubled up upon the floor. Was it his fancy, or had those eyes closed swiftly at his turning—was it by accident, too, that Monty,
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