"That's my pal, Monty," he said. "We're both English right enough."

Monty raised a flushed face and gazed with bloodshot eyes at the
man who was surveying him so calmly. Then he gave a little gurgling
cry and turned away. Captain Francis started and moved a step
towards him. There was a puzzled look in his face - as though he
were making an effort to recall something familiar.

"What is the matter with him?" he asked Trent.

"Drink!"

"Then why the devil don't you see that he doesn't get too much?"
the newcomer said sharply. "Don't you know what it means in this
climate? Why, he's on the high-road to a fever now. Who on this
earth is it he reminds me of?"

Trent laughed shortly.

"There's never a man in Buckomari - no, nor in all Africa - could
keep Monty from the drink," he said. "Live with him for a month
and try it. It wouldn't suit you - I don't think."

He glanced disdainfully at the smooth face and careful dress of
their visitor, who bore the inspection with a kindly return of
contempt.

"I've no desire to try," he said; "but he reminds me very strongly
of some one I knew in England. What do you call him - Monty?"