Da Souza had made a fortune trading fiery rum on the Congo and had probably done more to debauch the niggers he spoke of so bitterly than any man in Africa.
"The Bekwando people have a bad name--very bad name.

As for any sense of commercial honour--my dear Trent, one might as well expect diamonds to spring up like mushrooms under our feet." "The document," Trent said, "is signed by the King and witnessed by Captain Francis, who is Agent-General out here, or something of the sort, for the English Government.

It was no gift and don't you think it, but a piece of hard bartering.

Forty bearers carried our presents to Bekwando and it took us three months to get through.

There is enough in it to make us both millionaires.
"Then why," Da Souza asked, looking up with twinkling eyes, "do you want to sell me a share in it ?" "Because I haven't a darned cent to bless myself with," Trent answered curtly.