“Mind,” Trent said, “you are a fool to drink it and I am a fool to let you! You risk your life and mine. Sam has been up and swears we must clear out to-morrow. What sort of form do you think you'll be in to walk sixty miles through the swamps and bush, with perhaps a score of these devils at our heels? Come now, old 'un, be reasonable.” The veins on the old man's forehead stood out like whipcord. “I won it,” he cried. “Give it me! Give it me, I say.” Trent made no further protest. He walked back to where he had been lying and recommenced his Patience. Monty drank off the contents of the tumbler in two long, delicious gulps! Then he flung the horn upon the floor and laughed aloud. “That's better,” he cried, “that's better! What an ass you are, Trent! To imagine that a drain like that would have any effect at all, save to put life into a man! Bah! what do you know about it?” Trent did not raise his head. He went on with his solitary game and, to all appearance, paid no heed to his companion's words. Monty was not in the humour to be ignored. He flung himself on the ground opposite to his companion. “What a slow-blooded sort of creature you are, Trent!” he said. “Don't you ever drink, don't you ever take life a little more gaily?” “Not when I am carrying my life in my hands,” Trent answered grimly. “I get drunk sometimes--when there's nothing on and the blues come--never at a time like this though.” “It is pleasant to hear,” the old man remarked, stretching out his limbs, “that you do occasionally relax. In your present frame of mind--you will not be offended I trust--you are just a little heavy as a companion. Never mind. In a year's time I will be teaching you how to dine--to drink champagne, to--by the way, Trent, have you ever tasted champagne?” “Never,” Trent answered gruffly “Don't know that I want to either.” Monty was compassionate. “My young friend,” he said, “I would give my soul to have our future before us, to have your youth and never to have tasted champagne. Phew! the memory of it is delicious!” “Why don't you go to bed?” Trent said. “You'll need all your strength to-morrow!” Monty waved his hand with serene contempt. “I am a man of humours, my dear friend,” he said, “and to-night my humour is to talk and to be merry. What is it the philosophers tell us?--that the sweetest joys of life are the joys of anticipation. Here we are, then, on the eve of our triumph--let us talk, plan, be happy. Bah! how thirsty it makes one! Come, Trent, what stake will you have me set up against that other tumblerful of brandy.” “No stake that you can offer,” Trent answered shortly. “That drop of brandy may stand between us and death. Pluck up your courage, man, and forget for a bit that there is such a thing as drink.” Monty frowned and looked stealthily across towards the bottle.