CHAPTER III
For a moment Monty stood as though dazed. Then the excitement whichhad shone in his face slowly subsided. He stood quite silent, mutteringsoftly to himself, his eyes fixed upon Trent.
"Her picture! My little girl's picture! Trent, you're joking, you'remad!"
"Am I?" Trent answered nonchalantly. "Perhaps so! Anyhow those are myterms! You can play or not as you like! I don't care."
A red spot burned in Monty's cheeks, and a sudden passion shook him. Hethrew himself upon Trent and would have struck him but that he was asa child in the younger man's grasp. Trent held him at a distance easilyand without effort.
"There's nothing for you to make a fuss about," he said gruffly. "Ianswered a plain question, that's all. I don't want to play at all. Ishould most likely lose, and you're much better without the brandy."
Monty was foaming with passion and baffled desire. "You beast!" hecried, "you low, ill-bred cur! How dared you look at her picture! Howdare you make me such an offer! Let me go, I say! Let me go!"
But Trent did not immediately relax his grasp. It was evidently not safeto let him go. His fit of anger bordered upon hysterics. Presently hegrew calmer but more maudlin. Trent at last released him, and, thrustingthe bottle of brandy into his coat-pocket, returned to his game ofPatience. Monty lay on the ground watching him with red, shifty eyes.
"Trent," he whimpered. But Trent did not answer him.
"Trent, you needn't have been so beastly rough. My arm is black and blueand I am sore all over."
But Trent remained silent. Monty crept a little nearer. He was beginningto feel a very injured person.
"Trent," he said, "I'm sorry we've had words. Perhaps I said more than Iought to have done. I did not mean to call you names. I apologise."
"Granted," Trent said tersely, bending over his game.
"You see, Trent," he went on, "you're not a family man, are you? If youwere, you would understand. I've been down in the mire for years, anutter scoundrel, a poor, weak, broken-down creature. But I've alwayskept that picture! It's my little girl! She doesn't know I'm alive,never will know, but it's all I have to remind me of her, and I couldn'tpart with it, could I?"
"You'd be a blackguard if you did," Trent answered curtly.
Monty's face brightened.
"I was sure," he declared, "that upon reflection you would think so.I was sure of it. I have always found you very fair, Trent, and veryreasonable. Now shall we say two hundred?"
"You seem very anxious for a game," Trent remarked. "Listen, I willplay you for any amount you like, my I O U against your I O U. Are youagreeable?"
Monty shook his head. "I don't want your money, Trent," he said. "Youknow that I want that brandy. I will leave it to you to name the stake Iam to set up against it."
"As regards that," Trent answered shortly, "I've named the stake; I'llnot consider any other."
Monty's face once more grew black with anger.
"You are a beast, Trent--a bully!" he exclaimed passionately; "I'll notpart with it!"
"I hope you won't," Trent answered. "I've told you what I should thinkof you if you did."
Monty moved a little nearer to the opening of the hut. He drew thephotograph hesitatingly from his pocket, and looked at it by themoonlight. His eyes filled with maudlin tears. He raised it to his lipsand kissed it.
"My little girl," he whispered. "My little daughter." Trent had re-lithis pipe and started a fresh game of Patience. Monty, standing in theopening, began to mutter to himself.
"I am sure to win--Trent is always unlucky at cards--such a little risk,and the brandy--ah!"
He sucked in his lips for a moment with a slight gurgling sound. Helooked over his shoulder, and his face grew haggard with longing. Hiseyes sought Trent's, but Trent was smoking stolidly and looking at thecards spread out before him, as a chess-player at his pieces.
"Such a very small risk," Monty whispered softly to himself. "I need thebrandy too. I cannot sleep without it! Trent!"
Trent made no answer. He did not wish to hear. Already he had repented.He was not a man of keen susceptibility, but he was a trifle ashamed ofhimself. At that moment he was tempted to draw the cork, and empty thebrandy out upon the ground.
"Trent! Do you hear, Trent?"
He could no longer ignore the hoarse, plaintive cry. He lookedunwillingly up. Monty was standing over him with white, twitching faceand bloodshot eyes.
"Deal the cards," he muttered simply, and sat down.
Trent hesitated. Monty misunderstood him and slowly drew the photographfrom his pocket and laid it face downwards upon the table. Trent bit hislip and frowned.
"Rather a foolish game this," he said. "Let's call it off, eh? You shallhave--well, a thimbleful of the brandy and go to bed. I'll sit up, I'mnot tired."
But Monty swore a very profane and a very ugly oath.
"I'll have the lot," he muttered. "Every drop; every d--d drop! Ay, andI'll keep the picture. You see, my friend, you see; deal the cards."
Then Trent, who had more faults than most men, but who hated badlanguage, looked at the back of the photograph, and, shuddering,hesitated no longer. He shuffled the cards and handed them to Monty.
"Your deal," he said laconically. "Same as before I suppose?"
Monty nodded, for his tongue was hot and his mouth dry, and speech wasnot an easy thing. But he dealt the cards, one by one with jealous care,and when he had finished he snatched upon his own, and looked at eachwith sickly disappointment.
"How many?" Trent asked, holding out the pack. Monty hesitated, halfmade up his mind to throw away three cards, then put one upon the table.Finally, with a little whine, he laid three down with trembling fingersand snatched at the three which Trent handed him. His face lit up, ascarlet flush burned in his cheek. It was evident that the draw hadimproved his hand.
Trent took his own cards up, looked at them nonchalantly, and helpedhimself to one card. Monty could restrain himself no longer. He threwhis hand upon the ground.
"Three's," he cried in fierce triumph, "three of a kind--nines!"
Trent laid his own cards calmly down.
"A full hand," he said, "kings up."
Monty gave a little gasp and then a moan. His eyes were fixed with afascinating glare upon those five cards which Trent had so calmly laiddown. Trent took up the photograph, thrust it carefully into his pocketwithout looking at it, and rose to his feet.
"Look here, Monty," he said, "you shall have the brandy; you've no rightto it, and you're best without it by long chalks. But there, you shallhave your own way."
Monty rose to his feet and balanced himself against the post.
"Never mind--about the brandy," he faltered. "Give me back thephotograph."
Trent shrugged his shoulders. "Why?" he asked coolly. "Full hand beatsthree, don't it? It was my win and my stake."
"Then--then take that!" But the blow never touched Trent. He thrust outhis hand and held his assailant away at arm's length.
Monty burst into tears.
"You don't want it," he moaned; "what's my little girl to you? You neversaw her, and you never will see her in your life."
"She is nothing to me of course," Trent answered. "A moment or so agoher picture was worth less to you than a quarter of a bottle of brandy."
"I was mad," Monty moaned. "She was my own little daughter, God helpher!"
"I never heard you speak of her before," Trent remarked.
There was a moment's silence. Then Monty crept out between the postsinto the soft darkness, and his voice seemed to come from a greatdistance.
"I have never told you about her," he said, "because she is not the sortof woman who is spoken of at all to such men as you. I am no more worthyto be her father than you are to touch the hem of her skirt. There wasa time, Trent, many, many years ago, when I was proud to think that shewas my daughter, my own flesh and blood. When I began to go down--itwas different. Down and down and lower still! Then she ceased to be mydaughter! After all it is best
. I am not fit to carry her picture. Youkeep it. Trent--you keep it--and give me the brandy."
He staggered up on to his feet and crept back into the hut. His handswere outstretched, claw-like and bony, his eyes were fierce as a wildcat's. But Trent stood between him and the brandy bottle.
"Look here," he said, "you shall have the picture back--curse you! Butlisten. If I were you and had wife, or daughter, or sweetheart like this"--he touched the photograph almost reverently--"why, I'd go throughfire and water but I'd keep myself decent; ain't you a silly old fool,now? We've made our piles, you can go back and take her a fortune, giveher jewels and pretty dresses, and all the fal-de-lals that women love.You'll never do it if you muddle yourself up with that stuff. Pullyourself together, old 'un. Chuck the drink till we've seen this thingthrough at any rate!"
"You don't know my little girl," Monty muttered. "How should you? She'dcare little for money or gewgaws, but she'd break her heart to see herold father--come to this--broken down--worthless--a hopeless, miserablewretch. It's too late. Trent, I'll have just a glass I think. It will dome good. I have been fretting, Trent, you see how pale I am."
He staggered towards the bottle. Trent watched him, interfering nolonger. With a little chuckle of content he seized upon it and, toofearful of interference from Trent to wait for a glass, raised it to hislips. There was a gurgling in his throat--a little spasm as he choked,and released his lips for a moment. Then the bottle slid from hisnerveless fingers to the floor, and the liquor oozed away in a littlebrown stream; even Trent dropped his pack of cards and sprang upstartled. For bending down under the sloping roof was a European, to allappearance an Englishman, in linen clothes and white hat. It was the manfor whom they had waited.