“That's all very well, my friend,” he said, “but kindly remember that you are young, and well, and strong. I am old, and an invalid. I need support. Don't be hard on me, Trent. Say fifty again. “No, nor fifty hundred,” Trent answered shortly. “I don't want your money. Don't be such a fool, or you'll never live to enjoy it.” Monty shuffled on to his feet, and walked aimlessly about the hut. Once or twice as he passed the place where the bottle rested, he hesitated; at last he paused, his eyes lit up, he stretched out his hand stealthily. But before he could possess himself of it Trent's hand was upon his collar. “You poor fool!” he said; “leave it alone can't you? You want to poison yourself I know. Well, you can do as you jolly well like when you are out of this--not before.” Monty's eyes flashed evil fires, but his tone remained persuasive. “Trent,” he said, “be reasonable. Look at me! I ask you now whether I am not better for that last drop. I tell you that it is food and wine to me. I need it to brace me up for to-morrow. Now listen! Name your own stake! Set it up against that single glass! I am not a mean man, Trent. Shall we say one hundred and fifty?” Trent looked at him half scornfully, half deprecatingly. “You are only wasting your breath, Monty,” he said. “I couldn't touch money won in such a way, and I want to get you out of this alive. There's fever in the air all around us, and if either of us got a touch of it that drop of brandy might stand between us and death. Don't worry me like a spoilt child. Roll yourself up and get to sleep! I'll keep watch.” “I will be reasonable,” Monty whined. “I will go to sleep, my friend, and worry you no more when I have had just one sip of that brandy! It is the finest medicine in the world for me! It will keep the fever off. You do not want money you say! Come, is there anything in this world which I possess, or may possess, which you will set against that three inches of brown liquid?” Trent was on the point of an angry negative. Suddenly he stopped--hesitated--and said nothing. Monty's face lit up with sudden hope. “Come,” he cried, “there is something I see! You're the right sort, Trent. Don't be afraid to speak out. It's yours, man, if you win it. Speak up!” “I will stake that brandy,” Trent answered, “against the picture you let fall from your pocket an hour ago.” CHAPTER III For a moment Monty stood as though dazed. Then the excitement which had shone in his face slowly subsided. He stood quite silent, muttering softly to himself, his eyes fixed upon Trent. “Her picture! My little girl's picture! Trent, you're joking, you're mad!” “Am I?” Trent answered nonchalantly. “Perhaps so! Anyhow those are my terms! You can play or not as you like! I don't care.”