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.

Sweat gleamed on his shoulders and chest, as though he had been

oiled.

"Don't even bother to stop," Jake said softly. "Just keep straight on

down the road, friend." Gareth grinned at him engagingly and from the

seat beside him he lifted a large silver champagne bucket,

frosted with dew, and tinkling with ice. Over the edge of the bucket

showed the necks of a dozen bottles of Tusker beer.

"Peace offering, old chap," said Gareth, and Jake's throat contracted

so violently with thirst that he couldn't speak for a moment.

"A free gift with no strings attached, what?" Even in this cloying

humid heat, Jake Barton had been so completely absorbed by his task

that he had taken little liquid in three days, and none of it was pale

golden, bubbling and iced. His eyes began to water with the strength

of his desire.

Gareth dismounted from the ricksha and came forward with the champagne

bucket under one arm.

"Swales," he said. "Major Gareth Swales," and held out his hand.

"Barton. Jake." Jake took the hand, but his eyes were still fixed on

the bucket.

Twenty minutes later, Jake sat waist-deep in a steaming galvanized iron

bath, set out alfresco under the mahogany trees. The bottle of

Tusker stood close at hand and he whistled happily as he worked up a

foaming lather in his armpits and across the dark hairy plain of his

chest.

"Trouble was, we got off on the wrong foot," explained Gareth, and

sipped at the neck of a Tusker bottle. He made it seem he was taking

Dam Nrignon from a crystal flute. He was lying back in Jake's single

canvas camp chair under the shade flap of the old sun-faded tent.

"Friend, you nearly got a wrong foot right up your backside." But

Jake's threat was without fire, marinated in Tusker.

I understand how you felt," said Gareth. "But then "I surely

understood you did tell me you weren't bidding. If only you had told

me the truth, we could have worked out an arrangement." Jake reached

out with a soap-frothed hand and lifted the Tusker bottle to his lips.

He swallowed twice, sighed and belched softly.

"Bless you," said Gareth, and then went on. "As soon as I "Ble

realized that you were bidding seriously, I backed out. I knew that

you and I could make a mutually beneficial deal later. And so here I

am now, drinking beer with you and talking a deal."

"You are talking I'm just listening, "Jake pointed out.

"Rite so." Gareth took out his cheroot case, carefully selected one

and leaned forward to place it tenderly between

Jake's willing lips. He struck a match off the sole of his boot and

cupped the match for Jake.

"It seems clear to me that you have a buyer for the cars, right?"

"I'm still listening." Jake exhaled a long feather of cheroot smoke

with evident pleasure.

"You must have a price already set, and I am prepared to better that

price." Jake took the cheroot out of his mouth and for the first time

regarded Gareth levelly.

"You want all five cars at that price in their present condition?"

"Right," said Gareth.

What if I tell you that only three are runners two are "shot all to

hell."

"That wouldn't affect my offer." Jake reached out and drained the

Tusker bottle. Gareth opened another for him and placed it in his

hand.

Swiftly Jake ran over the offer. He had an open contract with

Anglo-Tanganyika Sugar Company to supply gasoline powered sugar-cane

crushers at a fixed price of 110 pounds each.

From the three cars he could make up three units maximum of

330pounds.

The Limey's offer was for all five units, at a price to be

determined.

"I've done one hell of a lot of work on them," Jake softened him a

little.

"I can see that."

"One hundred and fifty pounds each for all five. That's seven hundred

and fifty."

"You would replace the engines and make them look all ship-shape."

"Sure."

"Done," said Gareth. "I

knew we could work something out," and they beamed at each other.

"I'll make out a deed of sale right away," Gareth produced a cheque

book, "and then I'll give you my cheque for the full amount."

"Your what? "The beam on Jake's face faded.

"My personal cheque on Courts of Piccadilly." It was true that

Gareth Swales did have a chequing account with Courts. According to

his last statement, the account was in debit to the sum of eighteen

pounds seventeen and sixpence. The manager had written him a spicy

little letter in red ink.

"Safe as the Bank of England." Gareth flourished his cheque book.

It would take three weeks for the cheque to be presented in London and

bounce through the roof. By that time, he hoped to be on his way to

Madrid. There looked to be a very profitable little piece of business

brewing up satisfactorily in that area, and by then Gareth

Swales would have the capital to exploit it.

"Funny thing about cheques." Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth.