"I'm damned if I agree to them."
"Very well, but it's a pity we've wasted so much time," Moniz observed, pushing aside the paper, but convinced that he could arrange matters his own way all in good time.
They had arrived at a deadlock. There were long arguments, not devoid of heat. It was evening before Chester, seeing no way out of the difficulty, agreed to what the Portuguese had suggested.
"You—you're a hard brute, Moniz," he said in a thick voice. "You're sure there isn't anything else I can throw in to make weight!"
"I'm not hard, Mr. Trent," Moniz replied blandly. "It is only business. Come on, sign the thing."
Chester took the pen into his hand and glanced at the writing which danced under his eyes and looked blurred. Then he cocked his head on one side, listening to someone approaching the bungalow.
"Hello, Trent!" a voice called.
Chester scowled. It did not occur to him to wonder, for the moment, how Keith happened to be on Tamba. Several things seemed to be very confused just then.
"Hello!" he answered, as the man from the Four Winds appeared round a bend in the path leading to the bungalow. Trent and Moniz were on the veranda, clearly visible in the light of a
