We'll stay here till we get our
concessions, or till they bury us, then! It's a go!"
Monty - no one at Buckomari had ever known of any other name for
him - stretched out a long hand, with delicate tapering fingers,
and let it rest for a moment gingerly in the thick, brown palm of
his companion. Then he glanced stealthily over his shoulder and
his eyes gleamed.
"I think, if you will allow me, Trent, I will just moisten my lips
- no more - with some of that excellent brandy."
Trent caught his arm and held it firmly.
"No, you don't," he said, shaking his head. "That's the last
bottle, and we've got the journey back. We'll keep that, in case
of fever."
A struggle went on in the face of the man whose hot breath fell
upon Trent's cheek. It was the usual thing - the disappointment
of the baffled drunkard - a little more terrible in his case perhaps
because of the remnants of refinement still to be traced in his
well-shaped features. His weak eyes for once were eloquent, but
with the eloquence of cupidity and unwholesome craving, his lean
cheeks twitched and his hands shook.
"Just a drop, Trent!" he pleaded. "I'm not feeling well, indeed
I'm not! The odours here are so foul. A liqueur-glassful will do
me all the good in the world.
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