I thought you were dead,
Monty, or I wouldn't have left you."
"Eh! What!"
Monty mumbled for a moment or two and was silent. A look of dull
disappointment struggled with the vacuity of his face. Trent
noticed that his hands were shaking pitifully and his eyes were
bloodshot.
"Try and think, Monty," he went on, drawing a step nearer to him.
"Don't you remember what a beastly time we had up in the bush - how
they kept us day after day in that villainous hut because it was
a fetish week, and how after we had got the concessions those
confounded niggers followed us! They meant our lives, Monty, and
I don't know how you escaped! Come! make an effort and pull
yourself together. We're rich men now, both of us. You must come
back to England and help me spend a bit."
Monty had recovered a little his power of speech. He leaned over
his spade and smiled benignly at his visitor.
"There was a Trentham in the Guards," he said slowly, "the Honourable
George Trentham, you know, one of poor Abercrombie's sons, but I
thought he was dead. You must dine with me one night at the
Travellers'! I've given up eating myself, but I'm always thirsty."
He looked anxiously away towards the town and began to mumble. Trent
was in despair. Presently he began again.
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