this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.
We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and
Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will
be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but
they prevent our friends from giving us succour.'
'No,' said Gareth. 'I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi
service for the entire press corps of the world.
I'll be damned if I will-'
'Can he drive a motor car? 'Jake interrupted 'We are still short of a
driver for the last car.'
'If I
know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle,' grunted Gareth
gloomily.
'If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,'
Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lightened a little.
'That's true if he can drive.'
'Let us find out,' suggested the
Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the
cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and
draw him aside from the main group.
'I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will
encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the
old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a
gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas.'
'Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into
your care.'
'Not that I don't appreciate that-' Gareth was about to enlarge his
argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the
cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened
up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin
like the early morning sun.
Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart
table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of
his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on
forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.
'Gentlemen,' said the Prince. 'I have the honour to introduce
Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press
and a good friend of my country.' Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty
years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young
woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were
not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to
disguise both.
She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt
with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out
by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same
cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at
the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.
Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call 'sensible.'
On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.
