"I am a man of humours, my dear friend," he said, "and to-night
my humour is to talk and to be merry. What is it the philosophers
tell us? - that the sweetest joys of life are the joys of
anticipation. Here we are, then, on the eve of our triumph - let
us talk, plan, be happy. Bah! how thirsty it makes one! Come,
Trent, what stake will you have me set up against that other
tumblerful of brandy."
"No stake that you can offer," Trent answered shortly. "That drop
of brandy may stand between us and death. Pluck up your courage,
man, and forget for a bit that there is such a thing as drink."
Monty frowned and looked stealthily across towards the bottle.
"That's all very well, my friend," he said, "but kindly remember
that you are young, and well, and strong. I am old, and an invalid.
I need support. Don't be hard on me, Trent. Say fifty again.
"No, nor fifty hundred," Trent answered shortly. "I don't want your
money. Don't be such a fool, or you'll never live to enjoy it."
Monty shuffled on to his feet, and walked aimlessly about the hut.
Once or twice as he passed the place where the bottle rested, he
hesitated; at last he paused, his eyes lit up, he stretched out his
hand stealthily. But before he could possess himself of it Trent's
hand was upon his collar.
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