“The document,” Trent said, “is signed by the King and witnessed by Captain Francis, who is Agent-General out here, or something of the sort, for the English Government. It was no gift and don't you think it, but a piece of hard bartering. Forty bearers carried our presents to Bekwando and it took us three months to get through. There is enough in it to make us both millionaires.
“Then why,” Da Souza asked, looking up with twinkling eyes, “do you want to sell me a share in it?”
“Because I haven't a darned cent to bless myself with,” Trent answered curtly. “I've got to have ready money. I've never had my fist on five thousand pounds before—no, nor five thousand pence, but, as I'm a living man, let me have my start and I'll hold my own with you all.”
Da Souza threw himself back in his chair with uplifted hands.
“But my dear friend,” he cried, “my dear young friend, you were not thinking—do not say that you were thinking of asking such a sum as five thousand pounds for this little piece of paper!”
The amazement, half sorrowful, half reproachful, on the man's face was perfectly done. But Trent only snorted.
“That piece of paper, as you call it, cost us the hard savings of years, it cost us weeks and months in the bush and amongst the swamps—it cost a man's life, not to mention the niggers we lost. Come, I'm not here to play skittles. Are you on for a deal or not? If you're doubtful about it I've another market. Say the word and we'll drink and part, but if you want to do business, here are my terms. Five thousand for a sixth share!”
“Sixth share,” the Jew screamed, “sixth share?”
Trent nodded.
“The thing's worth a million at least,” he said. “A sixth share is a great fortune. Don't waste any time turning up the whites of your eyes at me. I've named my terms and I shan't budge from them. You can lay your bottom dollar on that.”