Trent drained his tumbler and lit a cigar. “So much for Da Souza,” he said. “And now I should like to know, Mr. Stanley Cathcart, what the devil you and your assistant are doing shacking here in the cool of the day when you are the servants of the Bekwando Company and there's work to be done of the utmost importance? The whole place seems to be asleep. Where's your labour? There's not a soul at work. We planned exactly when to start the road. What the mischief do you mean by wasting a fortnight?” Cathcart coughed and was obviously ill-at-ease, but he answered with some show of dignity. “I have come to the conclusion, Mr. Trent, that the making of the road is impracticable and useless. There is insufficient labour and poor tools, no satisfactory method of draining the swampy country, and further, I don't think any one would work with the constant fear of an attack from those savages.” “So that's your opinion, is it?” Trent said grimly. “That is my opinion,” Cathcart answered. “I have embodied it in a report which I despatched to the secretary of the Company by Mr. Da Souza.” Trent rose and opened the door which swung into the little room. “Out you go!” he said fiercely. Cathcart looked at him in blank astonishment. “What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “These are my quarters!” “They're nothing of the sort,” Trent answered. “They are the headquarters in this country of the Bekwando Company, with which you have nothing to do! Out you go!” “Don't talk rubbish!” Cathcart said angrily. “I'm the authorised and properly appointed surveyor here!” “You're a liar!” Trent answered, “you've no connection at all with the Company! you're dismissed, sir, for incompetence and cowardice, and if you're not off the premises in three minutes it'll be the worse for you!” “You--you--haven't the power to do this,” Cathcart stuttered. Trent laughed. “We'll see about that,” he said. “I never had much faith in you, sir, and I guess you only got the job by a rig. But out you go now, sharp. If there's anything owing you, you can claim it in London. “There are all my clothes--” Cathcart began. Trent laid his hands upon his shoulders and threw him softly outside. “I'll send your clothes to the hotel,” he said. “Take my advice, young man, and keep out of my sight till you can find a steamer to take you where they'll pay you for doing nothing. You're the sort of man who irritates me and it's a nasty climate for getting angry in!” Cathcart picked himself up. “Well, I should like to know who's going to make your road,” he said spitefully. “I'll make it myself,” Trent roared. “Don't you think a little thing like some stupid laws of science will stand in my way, or the way of a man who knows his own mind. I tell you I'll level that road from the tree there which we marked as the starting-point to the very centre of Bekwando.” He slammed the door and re-entered the room. The boy was there, sitting upon the office stool hard at work with a pair of compasses.