'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.
