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.