“We have Adolph’s stinginess and Esteban’s braggadocio to thank for the condition in which we are,” she said. The fat Bluber shrugged his shoulder, the big Spaniard scowled. “For vy,” asked Adolph, “am I to blame?” “You were too stingy to employ enough carriers. I told you at the time that we ought to have had two hundred blacks in our party, but you wanted to save a little money, and now what is the result? Fifty men carrying eighty pounds of gold apiece and the other carriers are overburdened with camp equipment, while there are scarce enough left for askari to guard us properly. We have to drive them like beasts to make any progress and to keep them from throwing away their loads, and they are fagged out and angry. They don’t require much of an excuse to kill us all on the spot. On top of all this they are underfed. If we could keep their bellies filled we could probably keep them happy and reasonably contented, but I have learned enough about natives to know that if they are hungry they are neither happy nor contented, even in idleness. If Esteban had not bragged so much about his prowess as a hunter we should have brought enough provisions to last us through, but now, though we are barely started upon our return journey, we are upon less than half rations.” “I can’t kill game when there isn’t any game,” growled the Spaniard. “There is plenty of game,” said Kraski, the Russian. “We see the tracks of it every day.” The Spaniard eyed him venomously. “If there is so much game,” he said, “go out and get it yourself.” “I never claimed to be a hunter,” replied Kraski, “though I could go out with a sling shot and a pea shooter and do as well as you have.” The Spaniard leaped to his feet menacingly, and instantly the Russian covered him with a heavy service revolver. “Cut that business,” cried the girl, sharply, leaping between them. “Let the blighters fight,” growled John Peebles. “If one of ’em kills the hother there’ll be fewer to split the swag, and ’ere we are ’n that’s that.” “For vy should ve quarrel?” demanded Bluber. “Dere is enough for all—over forty-tree t’ousand pounds apiece. Ven you get mad at me you call me a dirty Jew und say dat I am stingy, but _Mein Gott_! you Christians are vorser. You vould kill vun of your friends to get more money. _Oi! Oi!_ tank _Gott_ dat I am not a Christian.” “Shut up,” growled Throck, “or we’ll have forty-three thousand pounds more to divide.” Bluber eyed the big Englishman fearfully. “Come, come, Dick,” he oozed, in his oiliest tones, “you vouldn’t get mad at a leedle choke vould you, und me your best friend?”