"Better?" he asked presently.
"Much. What luck to find you. What are you after - gold?"
Trent shook his head.
"Not at present. We're planning out the new road from Attra to
Bekwando."
Francis looked up with surprise.
"Never heard of it," he said; "but there's trouble ahead for you.
They are dancing the war-dance at Bekwando, and the King has been
shut up for three days with the priest and never opened his mouth.
We were on our way from the interior, and relied upon them for food
and drink. They've always been friendly, but this time we barely
escaped with our lives."
Trent's face grew serious. This was bad news for him, and he was
thankful that they had not carried out their first plan and
commenced their prospecting at Bekwando village.
"We have a charter," he said, "and, if necessary, we must fight.
I'm glad to be prepared though."
"A charter!" Francis pulled himself together and looked curiously
at the man who was still bending over him.
"Great Heavens!" he exclaimed, "why, you are Scarlett Trent, the
man whom I met with poor Villiers in Bekwando years ago."
Trent nodded.
"We waited for you," he said, "to witness our concession. I thought
that you would remember."
"I thought," Francis said slowly, "that there was something familiar
about you.
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