"The next time," Trent said coolly, "I shall fire at you instead of
at the tree. Remember I have lived out here and I know all about
you and your kind. You can understand me very well if you choose,
and you've just got to. Who sends you here with that vile stuff?"
"Massa, I tell! Massa Oom Sam, he send me!"
"And what is the stuff?"
"Hamburgh gin, massa! very good liquor! Please, massa, point him
pistol the other way."
Trent took up the flask, smelt its contents and threw it away with
a little exclamation of disgust.
"How often have you been coming here on this errand?" he asked
sternly.
"Most every day, massa - when him Mr. Price away."
Trent nodded.
"Very good," he said. "Now listen to me. If ever I catch you
round here again or anywhere else on such an errand, I'll shoot
you like a dog. Now be off."
The boy bounded away with a broad grin of relief. Trent walked up
to the house and asked for the missionary's wife. She came to him
soon, in what was called the parlour. A frail, anaemic-looking
woman with tired eyes and weary expression.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Price," Trent said, plunging at once
into his subject, "but I want to speak to you about this old man,
Monty. You've had him some time now, haven't you?"
"About four years," she answered.
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