“I don't know how the devil you got to hear of my coming, or what you want with me,” he answered brusquely. “Are you both English?”
Trent assented, waving his hand towards his companion in introductory fashion.
“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.