"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.
"They bring me out in a rash. If it's all the same to you, I'll just take the seven fifty in cash money."
Ok Gareth pursed his lips. Very well, so it wasn't going to be that easy either.
"Dear me," he said. "It will take a little while to clear."
"No hurry, "Jake grinned at him. "Any time before noon tomorrow.
That's the delivery date I have for my original buyer. You be here with the money before that, and they are all yours." He rose abruptly from the bath, cascading soapy water, and his black servant handed him a towel.
"What plans have you for dinner?" Gareth asked.
"I think Abou here has cooked up a pot of his lion-killing stew."
"Won't you be my guest at the Royal?"
"I drank your beer for free why shouldn't I eat your food?" asked Jake reasonably.
The dining room of the Royal Hotel had high ceilings and tall insect-screened sash windows. The mechanical fans set in the roof stirred the warm humid air sluggishly "into a substitute for coolness, and Gareth Swales was a splendid host.
His engaging charm was irresistible, and his choice of food and wine induced in Jake a sense of such well-being that they laughed together like old friends, and were delighted to find that they had mutual acquaintances mostly harm en and brothel-keepers in various parts of the world and that they had parallel experience.
Gareth had been doing business with a revolutionary leader in Venezuela while Jake was helping build the railroad in that same country. Jake had been chief engineer on a Blake Line coaster on the China run when Gareth had been making contact with the Chinese Communists on Yellow River.
They had been in France at the same time, and on that terrible day at Amiens, when the German machine guns had accelerated Gareth Swales's promotion from subaltern to major in the space of six hours, Jake had been four miles down the line, a sergeant driver in the Royal Tank Corps seconded from the American Third Army.
They discovered that they were almost of an age, neither of them yet forty, but that both of them had packed a world of experience and wandering into that short span, They recognized in each other that same restlessness that was always driving them on to new adventure, never staying long enough in one place or at one job to grow roots, unfettered by offspring or possessions, by spouse or responsibilities, taking up each new adventure eagerly and discarding it again without qualms or regrets, Always moving onwards never looking backwards.
Understanding each other a little, they began to respect one another.
Halfway through the meal, they were no longer scornful of the other's differences. Neither of them thought of the other as Limey or Yank any longer but this didn't mean that Jake was about to accept any cheques or that Gareth had given up his plans to acquire the five armoured cars. At last Gareth swilled the last few drops around his brandy balloon and glanced at his pocket watch.
"Nine o'clock. It's too early for bed. What shall we do now?"
Jake suggested, "There are two new girls down at Madame Cecile's. They came in on the mail boat." Gareth quickly turned the suggestion aside.
"Later perhaps but too soon after dinner, it gives me heartburn.
You don't, by any chance, feel like a few hands at cards? There is usually a decent game down at the club."
"We can't go in there. We aren't members."