“I was trading with the King of Bekwando a month ago,” Oom Sam answered.
“Palm-oil and mahogany for vile rum I suppose,” Trent said.
The man extended his hands and shrugged his shoulders. The old gesture.
“They will have it,” he said. “Shall we go to the hotel, Senor Trent, and rest?”
Trent nodded, and the three men scrambled up the beach, across an open space, and gained the shelter of a broad balcony, shielded by a striped awning which surrounded the plain white stone hotel. A Kru boy welcomed them with beaming face and fetched them drinks upon a Brummagem tray. Trent turned to the Englishman who had followed them up.
“To-morrow,” he said, “I shall see you about the contracts. My first business is a private matter with these gentlemen. Will you come up here and breakfast with me?”
The Englishman, a surveyor from a London office, assented with enthusiasm.
“I can't offer to put you up,” he said gloomily. “Living out here's beastly. See you in the morning, then.”
He strolled away, fanning himself. Trent lit a long cigar.
“I understand,” he said turning to Oom Sam, “that old Monty is alive still. If so, it's little short of a miracle, for I left him with scarcely a gasp in his body, and I was nearly done myself.