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."
Monty made a wry face. "Poker for love, my dear Trent," he said,
"between you and me, would lack all the charm of excitement.
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