"You don't understand, old girl. I haven't been able to figure how
he's doing it. He's invented a method new to science and the gambling
halls of the world. He might be an absolutely unscrupulous old rogue,
but he must be some sort of genius as well. I've just got to keep on
playing with him until I work out his system." Gareth's doleful
expression became radiant. "My God, when I do Monte Carlo here I
came!" He discarded a six of spades. The Ras leapt upon it with a
cackle of triumph and began laying out his hand.
"Oh my God," groaned Gareth. "He's done it again." The tense group of
counsellors and elders around the game exploded in a delighted burst of
cheers and felicitations, and the Ras acknowledged their
congratulations like a victorious prizefighter. Grinning and snuffling
he leaned across the rug and with a loud cry of "How do you do!" he
punched Gareth's arm playfully, and Gareth winced and massaged the limb
tenderly.
"He does that every time he wins. He's got a touch like a demented
blacksmith I'm black and blue."
"How do you do!" cried the \ Ras again, louder than before, and he
shaped up to punch once more, but
Gareth hastily produced his purse, and the Ras relaxed.
"He keeps punching until I pay." Gareth counted out the coins,
while the Ras and his followers watched in heavy-breathing
concentration, which only broke into smiles and laughter again when the
pile of coins in front of Gareth reached the stipulated amount. "No
credit in this game," Gareth explained, as he shoved the money
across.
"Cash on the nail, or you get your arm broken. This old bastard Gareth
glanced again at Gregorius, I no offence, of course.
But this old bastard wouldn't trust his own mother, probably with good
reason. I'm absolutely appalled! I've met some shockers in my time
but this chap takes the biscuit." There was a deep respect in
Gareth's tone, which changed to mild alarm as the Ras gathered the
cards preparatory to the next deal, and he turned to Gregorius.
"Please explain to your dear grandfather that, though I'd be delighted
to accommodate him at a future date, I do think he should now
concentrate a little of his skills on confounding the common enemy.
The armies of Italy are waiting. Reluctantly, the Ras laid the cards
aside and, with a sharp speech in Amharic, put the war council into
session, then immediately turned to Jake Barton.
"My grandfather wishes to know the state of his armoured squadron.
He is impressed with the cars, and is certain that they can be used to
great advantage."
"Tell him that he has wrecked a quarter of his armoured squadron. We've
got three runners left." The Ras showed no remorse at this rebuke, but
turned to his commanders and launched into a long vivid account of his
exploits as a driver, his wide gestures describing the speed and dash
of his evolutions. The account was punctuated by loyal exclamations of
wonder from his officers, and it was some minutes before he turned back
to Jake.
"My grandfather says that three of these wonderful machines will be
enough to send the Italians running back into the sea."
"I wish I
shared his confidence," remarked Gareth, and Jake went on, "There is
one other small problem, we are short of crews drivers and gunners for
the cars. We'll need a week or two to train your men." The Ras
interrupted fiercely, almost as though he had understood Jake, and
there was a fierce murmur of agreement from his commanders.
"My grandfather intends to attack the Italian positions at the
Wells of Chaldi. He intends to attack immediately." Jake glanced at
Gareth, who rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Give him the word, old
son," he said, but Jake shook his head.
"It'll come better from you." Gareth drew a deep breath and launched
into a long explanation as to the suicidal futility of a frontal
attack, even with armoured support, against guns dug into a commanding
position.
"The Italians must advance. That is when our chance will come."
It took all Gareth's eloquence to make the Ras agree, albeit
reluctantly, to wait for the enemy to make the first move, to watch
with his forward scouts for the moment when the Italians left their
fortified positions above the Wells and moved out into the open
grassland where they would be more vulnerable.
Once the Ras had agreed, scowling and muttering, to cool his ardour
that long, then Jake could take over from Gareth and suggest the
tactics that might best be employed.
"Please tell your grandfather that we come back to my original warning
we do not have crews for all three cars."
"I can drive,"
interrupted Vicky Camberwell, suddenly aware that she was being
squeezed out of consideration.
Gareth and Jake exchanged glances again, and were both instantly in
complete agreement, but it was Gareth who spoke for them.
"It's one thing acting as a ferry driver, and another as a combatant,
my dear. You are here to write about the fighting, not get mixed up in
it." Vicky flashed a scornful glance at him and turned to
Jake.
Jake she began.
"Gareth's right." He cut her short. "I agree with that all the way."
