the settlement at Buckomari, a drunkard, gambler, a creature to all
appearance hopelessly gone under, this look and this almost
passionate appeal were like a revelation. He stretched out his
great hand and patted his companion on the back - a proceeding which
obviously caused him much discomfort.

"Bravo, old cockie!" he said. "Didn't imagine you'd got the grit.
You know I'm not the chap to be let down easy. We'll go through
with it, then, and take all chances! It's my game right along.
Every copper I've got went to pay the bearers here and to buy the
kickshaws and rum for old What's-his-name, and I'm not anxious to
start again as a pauper. We'll stay here till we get our
concessions, or till they bury us, then! It's a go!"

Monty - no one at Buckomari had ever known of any other name for
him - stretched out a long hand, with delicate tapering fingers,
and let it rest for a moment gingerly in the thick, brown palm of
his companion. Then he glanced stealthily over his shoulder and
his eyes gleamed.

"I think, if you will allow me, Trent, I will just moisten my lips
- no more - with some of that excellent brandy."

Trent caught his arm and held it firmly.

"No, you don't," he said, shaking his head. "That's the last
bottle, and we've got the journey back. We'll keep that, in case
of fever."

A struggle went on in the face of the man whose hot breath fell