Trent looked curiously at his companion, vastly interested in this sudden outburst, in the firmness of his tone and the tightening of the weak mouth. After all, then, the old chap had some grit in him. To Trent, who had known him for years as a broken-down hanger-on of the settlement at Buckomari, a drunkard, gambler, a creature to all appearance hopelessly gone under, this look and this almost passionate appeal were like a revelation. He stretched out his great hand and patted his companion on the back--a proceeding which obviously caused him much discomfort. “Bravo, old cockie!” he said. “Didn't imagine you'd got the grit. You know I'm not the chap to be let down easy. We'll go through with it, then, and take all chances! It's my game right along. Every copper I've got went to pay the bearers here and to buy the kickshaws and rum for old What's-his-name, and I'm not anxious to start again as a pauper. We'll stay here till we get our concessions, or till they bury us, then! It's a go!” Monty--no one at Buckomari had ever known of any other name for him--stretched out a long hand, with delicate tapering fingers, and let it rest for a moment gingerly in the thick, brown palm of his companion. Then he glanced stealthily over his shoulder and his eyes gleamed. “I think, if you will allow me, Trent, I will just moisten my lips--no more--with some of that excellent brandy.” Trent caught his arm and held it firmly. “No, you don't,” he said, shaking his head. “That's the last bottle, and we've got the journey back. We'll keep that, in case of fever.” A struggle went on in the face of the man whose hot breath fell upon Trent's cheek. It was the usual thing--the disappointment of the baffled drunkard--a little more terrible in his case perhaps because of the remnants of refinement still to be traced in his well-shaped features. His weak eyes for once were eloquent, but with the eloquence of cupidity and unwholesome craving, his lean cheeks twitched and his hands shook. “Just a drop, Trent!” he pleaded. “I'm not feeling well, indeed I'm not! The odours here are so foul. A liqueur-glassful will do me all the good in the world.” “You won't get it, Monty, so it's no use whining,” Trent said bluntly. “I've given way to you too much already. Buck up, man! We're on the threshold of fortune and we need all our wits about us.” “Of fortune--fortune!” Monty's head dropped upon his chest, his nostrils dilated, he seemed to fall into a state of stupor. Trent watched him half curiously, half contemptuously. “You're terribly keen on money-making for an old 'un,” he remarked, after a somewhat lengthy pause. “What do you want to do with it?” “To do with it!” The old man raised his head. “To do with it!” The gleam of reawakened desire lit up his face. He sat for a moment thinking. Then he laughed softly.