“In the interests of civilisation,” Captain Francis answered, with a smile, “I think not.”
“I don't care how you put it,” Trent answered shortly. “You soldiers all prate of the interests of civilisation. Of course it's all rot. You want the land—you want to rule, to plant a flag, and be called a patriot.”
Captain Francis laughed. “And you, my superior friend,” he said, glancing at Trent, gaunt, ragged, not too clean, and back at Monty—“you want gold—honestly if you can get it, if not—well, it is not too wise to ask. Your partnership is a little mysterious, isn't it—with a man like that? Out of your magnificent morality I trust that he may get his share.”
Trent flushed a brick-red. An angry answer trembled upon his lips, but Oom Sam, white and with his little fat body quivering with fear, came hurrying up to them in the broad track of the moonlight.
“King he angry,” he called out to them breathlessly. “Him mad drunk angry. He say white men all go away, or he fire bush and use the poisoned arrow. Me off! Got bearers waiting.”
“If you go before we've finished,” Trent said, “I'll not pay you a penny. Please yourself.”
The little fat man trembled—partly with rage, partly with fear.
“You stay any longer,” he said, “and King him send after you and kill on way home. White English soldiers go Buckomari with you?”
Trent shook his head.
“Going the other way,” he said, “down to Wana Hill.”