far past what he had calculated was the Yank's limit.
"And five more." Jake's voice was gravelly with the strength of his
outrage. They were his, even if he had to pay out every shilling in
his wallet, they had to be his.
Forty." Gareth Swales's smile was slightly strained now.
He was fast approaching his own limit. The terms of the sale were cash
or bank-guaranteed cheque. He had long ago milked every source of cash
that was available to him, and any bank manager who guaranteed a
Gareth Swales cheque was destined for a swift change of employment.
"Forty-five." Jake's voice was hard and uncompromising; he was fast
approaching the figure where he would be working for nothing but the
satisfaction of blocking out the Limey.
"Fifty."
"And five."
"Sixty."
"And another five." That was break-even price for Jake after this he
was tossing away bright shining shillings.
"Seventy," drawled Gareth Swales, and that
411 at was his limit.
With regret he discarded all hopes of an easy acquisition of the cars.
Three hundred and fifty pounds represented his entire liquid reserves
he could bid no further. All right, the easy way had not worked out.
There were a dozen other ways, and by one of them Gareth
Swales was going to have them. By God, the prince might go as high as
a thousand each and he was not going to pass by that sort of profit for
lack of a few lousy hundred quid.
"Seventy-five," said Jake, and the crowd murmured and every eye flew to
Major Gareth Swales.
"Ah, kind gentle mens do you speak of eighty?" enquired the Sikh
eagerly. His commission was five per cent.
Graciously, but regretfully, Gareth shook his head.
"No, my dear chap. It was a mere whim of mine." He smiled across at
Jake. "May they give you much joy," he said, and drifted away towards
the gates. There was clearly nothing to be gained in approaching the
American now.
The man was in a towering rage and Gareth had judged him as the type
who habitually gave expression to this emotion by swinging with his
fists. Long ago, Gareth Swales had reached the conclusion that only
fools fight, and wise men supply them with the means to do so at a
profit, naturally.
It was three days before Jake Barton saw the Englishman again and
during that time he had towed the five iron ladies to the outskirts of
the town where he had set up his camp on the banks of a small stream
among a stand of African mahogany trees.
With a block and tackle slung from the branch of a mahogany, he had
lifted out the engines and worked on them far into each night by the
smoky light of a hurricane lamp.
Coaxing and sweet-talking the machines, changing and juggling faulty
and worn parts, hand-forging others on the charcoal brazier,
whistling to himself endlessly, swearing and sweating and scheming, he
had three of the Bentleys running by the afternoon of the third day.
Set up on improvised timber blocks, they had regained something of
their former gleam and glory beneath his loving hands.
Gareth Swales arrived at Jake's camp in the somnolent heat of the third
afternoon. He arrived in a ricksha pulled by a half-naked and sweating
black man and he lolled with the grace of a resting leopard on the
padded seat, looking cool in beautifully cut and snowy crisp linen.
Jake straightened up from the engine which he was tuning. He was naked
to the waist and his arms were greased black to the elbows.
Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and chest, as though he had been
oiled.
"Don't even bother to stop," Jake said softly. "Just keep straight on
down the road, friend." Gareth grinned at him engagingly and from the
seat beside him he lifted a large silver champagne bucket,
frosted with dew, and tinkling with ice. Over the edge of the bucket
showed the necks of a dozen bottles of Tusker beer.
"Peace offering, old chap," said Gareth, and Jake's throat contracted
so violently with thirst that he couldn't speak for a moment.
"A free gift with no strings attached, what?" Even in this cloying
humid heat, Jake Barton had been so completely absorbed by his task
that he had taken little liquid in three days, and none of it was pale
golden, bubbling and iced. His eyes began to water with the strength
of his desire.
Gareth dismounted from the ricksha and came forward with the champagne
bucket under one arm.
"Swales," he said. "Major Gareth Swales," and held out his hand.
"Barton. Jake." Jake took the hand, but his eyes were still fixed on
the bucket.
Twenty minutes later, Jake sat waist-deep in a steaming galvanized iron
bath, set out alfresco under the mahogany trees. The bottle of
Tusker stood close at hand and he whistled happily as he worked up a
foaming lather in his armpits and across the dark hairy plain of his
chest.
"Trouble was, we got off on the wrong foot," explained Gareth, and
sipped at the neck of a Tusker bottle. He made it seem he was taking
Dam Nrignon from a crystal flute. He was lying back in Jake's single
canvas camp chair under the shade flap of the old sun-faded tent.
"Friend, you nearly got a wrong foot right up your backside." But
Jake's threat was without fire, marinated in Tusker.
