of Jack Dempsey sidling furtively into an old ladies" tea party.

Gareth Swales sat in the shade of the mangoes upon an upturned

wheelbarrow, over which he had spread a silk handkerchief to protect

the pristine linen of his suit. He had set aside his straw hat, and

his hair was meticulously trimmed and combed, shining softly in that

rare colour between golden blond and red, and there was just a sparkle

of silver in the wings at his temples. His mustache was the same

colour and carefully moulded to the curve of his upper lip. His face

was deeply tanned by the tropical sun to a dark chestnut brown, so that

the contrasting blue of his eyes was startlingly pale and

penetrating,

as he watched Jake Barton cross the yard to join the gathering of

buyers under the mango trees. He sighed with resignation and returned

his attention to the folded envelope on which he was making his

financial calculations.

He really was finely drawn out, the previous eighteen months had been

very unkind to him. The cargo that had been seized in the Liao

River by the Japanese gunboat when he was only hours away from

delivering it to the Chinese commander at Mukden and receiving payment

for it had wiped away the accumulated capital of ten years. It had

taken all his ingenuity and a deal of financial agility to assemble the

package that was stored at this moment in No.

4 warehouse down at the main docks of Dares Salaam port.

His buyers would be arriving to take delivery in twelve days and the

five armoured cars would have rounded out the package beautifully.

Armour, by God, he could fix his own price. Only aircraft would have

been more desirable from his client's point of view.

Gareth had first seen them that morning in their neglected and decrepit

state of repair, he had discounted them completely, and was on the

point of turning away when he had noticed the long muscular pair of

legs protruding from the engine of one of the vehicles and heard the

barely recognizable strains of "Tiger Rag'.

Now he knew that one of them at least was a runner. A few gallons of

paint, and a new Vickers machine gun set in the mountings, and the five

machines would look magnificent. Gareth would give one of his justly

famous sales routines. He would start the one good engine and fire the

machine gun by God, the jolly old prince would pull out his purse and

start spilling sovereigns all over the scenery.

There was only the damned Yankee to worry about, it might cost him a

few bob more than he had reckoned to edge him out, but Gareth was not

too worried. The man looked as though he would have difficulty raising

the price of a beer.

Gareth flicked at his sleeve where a speck of dust might have settled;

he placed the panama back on his golden head, adjusted the wide brim

carefully and removed the long slim cheroot from his lips to inspect

the ash, before he rose and sauntered across to the group.

The auctioneer was an elfin Sikh in a black silk suit with his beard

twisted up under his chin, and a large dazzling white turban wrapped

about his head.

He was perched like a little black bird on the turret of the nearest

armoured car, and his voice was plaintive as he pleaded with the

audience that stared up at him stolidly with expressionless faces and

glazed eyes.

"Come, gentle mens let me be hearing some mellifluous voice cry out

"ten pounds". Do I hear "ten pounds each" for these magnificent

conveyances?" He cocked his head and listened to the hot noon breeze

in the top branches of the mango. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

"Five pounds, please? Will some wise gentle mens tell me five pounds?

Two pounds ten gentle mens for a mere fifty shillings these royal

machines, these fine, these beautiful-" He broke off, and lowered his

gaze, placed a delicate chocolate brown hand over his troubled brow. "A

price, gentle mens Please, start me with a price."

"One pound!" a voice called in the lilting accents of the Texan

ranges. For a moment the Sikh did not move, then raised his head with

dramatic slowness and stared at Jake who towered above the crowd around

him.

"A pound?" the Sikh whispered huskily. "Twenty shillings each for

these fine, these beautiful-" he broke off and shook his head

sorrowfully. Then abruptly his manner changed and became brisk and

businesslike. "One pound, I am bid.

40, I Do I hear two, two pounds? No advance on one pound?

Going for the first time at one pound!" Gareth Swales drifted forward,

and the crowd opened miraculously, drawing aside respectfully.

"Two pounds." He spoke softly, but his voice carried clearly in the

hush. Jake's long angular frame stiffened, and a dark wine-coloured

flush spread slowly up the back of his neck. Slowly, his head

swivelled and he stared across at the Englishman who had now reached

the front row.

Gareth smiled brilliantly and tipped the brim of his panama to

acknowledge Jake's glare. The Sikh's commercial instinct instantly

sensed the rivalry between them and his mood brightened.

"I have two--" he chirruped.

Five," snapped Jake.

"Ten," murmured Gareth, and Jake felt a hot uncontrollable anger come

seething up from his guts. He knew the feeling so well, and he tried

to control it, but it was no use.

It came up in a savage red tide to swamp his reason.

The crowd stirred with delight, and all their heads swung in unison

towards the tall American.

"Fifteen," said jake, "and every head swung back towards the slim

Englishman.

Gareth inclined his head gracefully.

"Twenty," piped the Sikh delightedly. "I have twenty."

"And five." Dimly through the mists of his anger, Jake knew that there

was no way that he would let the Limey have these ladies. If he

couldn't buy them, he would burn them.

The Sikh sparkled at Gareth with gazelle eyes.

"Thirty, sir?" he asked, and Gareth grinned easily and waved his

cheroot. He was experiencing a rising sense of alarm already they were

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