Monty stood trembling by.
"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.