A Millionaire of Yesterday. E. Phillips Oppenheim

mind my business,” Captain Francis answered curtly; “what about yours? Why have you been hanging about here for me?”

      “I'll show you,” Trent answered, taking a paper from his knapsack. “You see, it's like this. There are two places near this show where I've found gold. No use blowing about it down at Buckomari—the fellows there haven't the nerve of a kitten. This cursed climate has sapped it all out of them, I reckon. Monty and I clubbed together and bought presents for his Majesty, the boss here, and Monty wrote out this little document—sort of concession to us to sink mines and work them, you see. The old buffer signed it like winking, directly he spotted the rum, but we ain't quite happy about it; you see, it ain't to be supposed that he's got a conscience, and there's only us saw him put his mark there. We'll have to raise money to work the thing upon this, and maybe there'll be difficulties. So what we thought was this. Here's an English officer coming; let's get him to witness it, and then if the King don't go on the square, why, it's a Government matter.”

      Captain Francis lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two.

      “I don't quite see,” he said, “why we should risk a row for the sake of you two.”

      Trent snorted.

      “Look here,” he said; “I suppose you know your business. You don't want me to tell you that a decent excuse for having a row with this old Johnny is about the best thing that could happen to you. He's a bit too near the borders of civilisation to be a decent savage. Sooner or later some one will have to take him under their protection. If you don't do it, the French will. They're hanging round now looking out for an opportunity. Listen!”

      Both men moved instinctively towards the open part of the hut and looked across towards the village. Up from the little open space in front of the King's dwelling-house leaped a hissing bright flame; they had kindled a fire, and black forms of men, stark naked and wounding themselves with spears, danced around it and made the air hideous with discordant cries. The King himself, too drunk to stand, squatted upon the ground with an empty bottle by his side. A breath of wind brought a strong, noxious odour to the two men who stood watching. Captain Francis puffed hard at his cigarette.

      “Ugh!” he muttered; “beastly!”

      “You may take my word for it,” Trent said gruffly, “that if your two hundred soldiers weren't camped in the bush yonder, you and I and poor Monty would be making sport for them to-night. Now come. Do you think a quarrel with that crew is a serious thing to risk?”

      “In the interests of civilisation,” Captain Francis answered, with a smile, “I think not.”

      “I don't care how you put it,” Trent answered shortly. “You soldiers all prate of the interests of civilisation. Of course it's all rot. You want the land—you want to rule, to plant a flag, and be called a patriot.”

      Captain Francis laughed. “And you, my superior friend,” he said, glancing at Trent, gaunt, ragged, not too clean, and back at Monty—“you want gold—honestly if you can get it, if not—well, it is not too wise to ask. Your partnership is a little mysterious, isn't it—with a man like that? Out of your magnificent morality I trust that he may get his share.”

      Trent flushed a brick-red. An angry answer trembled upon his lips, but Oom Sam, white and with his little fat body quivering with fear, came hurrying up to them in the broad track of the moonlight.

      “King he angry,” he called out to them breathlessly. “Him mad drunk angry. He say white men all go away, or he fire bush and use the poisoned arrow. Me off! Got bearers waiting.”

      “If you go before we've finished,” Trent said, “I'll not pay you a penny. Please yourself.”

      The little fat man trembled—partly with rage, partly with fear.

      “You stay any longer,” he said, “and King him send after you and kill on way home. White English soldiers go Buckomari with you?”

      Trent shook his head.

      “Going the other way,” he said, “down to Wana Hill.”

      Oom Sam shook his head vigorously.

      “Now you mind,” he said; “I tell you, King send after you. Him blind mad.”

      Oom Sam scuttled away. Captain Francis looked thoughtful. “That little fat chap may be right,” he remarked. “If I were you I'd get out of this sharp. You see, I'm going the other way. I can't help you.”

      Trent set his teeth.

      “I've spent a good few years trying to put a bit together, and this is the first chance I've had,” he said; “I'm going to have you back me as a British subject on that concession. We'll go down into the village now if you're ready.”

      “I'll get an escort,” Francis said. “Best to impress 'em a bit, I think. Half a minute.”

      He stepped back into the hut and looked steadfastly at the man who was still lying doubled up upon the floor. Was it his fancy, or had those eyes closed swiftly at his turning—was it by accident, too, that Monty, with a little groan, changed his position at that moment, so that his face was in the shadow? Captain Francis was puzzled.

      “It's like him,” he said to himself softly; “but after all the thing's too improbable!”

      He turned away with a shade upon his face and followed Trent out into the moonlight. The screeching from the village below grew louder and more hideous every minute.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

      The howls became a roar, blind passion was changed into purposeful fury. Who were these white men to march so boldly into the presence of the King without even the formality of sending an envoy ahead? For the King of Bekwando, drunk or sober, was a stickler for etiquette. It pleased him to keep white men waiting. For days sometimes a visitor was kept waiting his pleasure, not altogether certain either as to his ultimate fate, for there were ugly stories as to those who had journeyed to Bekwando and never been seen or heard of since. Those were the sort of visitors with whom his ebon Majesty loved to dally until they became pale with fright or furious with anger and impatience; but men like this white captain, who had brought him no presents, who came in overwhelming force and demanded a passage through his country as a matter of right were his special detestation. On his arrival he had simply marched into the place at the head of his columns of Hausas without ceremony, almost as a master, into the very presence of the King. Now he had come again with one of those other miscreants who at least had knelt before him and brought rum and many other presents. A slow, burning, sullen wrath was kindled in the King's heart as the three men drew near. His people, half-mad with excitement and debauch, needed only a cry from him to have closed like magic round these insolent intruders. His thick lips were parted, his breath came hot and fierce whilst he hesitated. But away outside the clearing was that little army of Hausas, clean-limbed, faithful, well drilled and armed. He choked down his wrath. There were grim stories about those who had yielded to the luxury of slaying these white men—stories of villages razed to the ground and destroyed, of a King himself who had been shot, of vengeance very swift and very merciless. He closed his mouth with a snap and sat up with drunken dignity. Oom Sam, in fear and trembling, moved to his side.

      “What they want?” the King asked.

      Oom Sam spread out the document which Trent had handed him upon a tree-stump, and explained. His Majesty nodded more affably. The document reminded him of the pleasant fact that there were three casks of rum to come to him every year. Besides, he rather liked scratching his royal mark upon the smooth, white paper. He was quite willing to repeat the performance, and took up the pen which Sam handed him readily.

      “Him white man just come,” Oom Sam explained; “want see you do this.”

      His