“You don't know my little girl,” Monty muttered. “How should you? She'd care little for money or gewgaws, but she'd break her heart to see her old father--come to this--broken down--worthless--a hopeless, miserable wretch. It's too late. Trent, I'll have just a glass I think. It will do me good. I have been fretting, Trent, you see how pale I am.” He staggered towards the bottle. Trent watched him, interfering no longer. With a little chuckle of content he seized upon it and, too fearful of interference from Trent to wait for a glass, raised it to his lips. There was a gurgling in his throat--a little spasm as he choked, and released his lips for a moment. Then the bottle slid from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and the liquor oozed away in a little brown stream; even Trent dropped his pack of cards and sprang up startled. For bending down under the sloping roof was a European, to all appearance an Englishman, in linen clothes and white hat. It was the man for whom they had waited. CHAPTER IV Trent moved forward and greeted the newcomer awkwardly. “You're Captain Francis,” he said. “We've been waiting for you.” The statement appeared to annoy the Explorer. He looked nervously at the two men and about the hut. “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. “I've no desire to try,” he said; “but he reminds me very strongly of some one I knew in England. What do you call him--Monty?” Trent nodded. “Never heard any other name,” he said. “Have you ever heard him speak of England?” Francis asked. Trent hesitated. What was this newcomer to him that he should give away his pal? Less than nothing! He hated the fellow already, with a rough, sensitive man's contempt of a bearing and manners far above his own. “Never. He don't talk.”