The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии txt) 📗
"This is my home. The only home I have, and now do you know what that what Mr. Rhodes told me?" "Have we got any more soap?" Ralph demanded as he hopped on one leg to free his breeches. "One bar will not be enough." "He said, "Jordan will be in charge of the kitchens while we are here, Mrs. Ballantyne, he knows my tastes." What do you think of that?" "Jordan is a damned fine cook." Ralph lowered himself gingerly into the bath, and grunted as his naked buttocks touched the nearly boiling surface.
"I have been forbidden my own kitchen." "Get in!" Ralph ordered, and she broke off and stared at him incredulously. "What did you say?" she demanded, but in reply he seized her ankle and toppled Cathy shrieking her protests on top of himself.
Steaming water and suds splattered the canvas walls of the tent, and when he released her at last, she was sodden to the waist.
"Your dress is soaked," he pointed out complacently, "now you have no choice take it off!" Naked, she sat with her back to -him in the galvanized bath with her knees drawn up under her chin, and her damp hair piled on top of her head, but still she continued her protest.
"Even Louise could bear the man's arrogance and misogyny no longer. She made your father take her back to King's Lynn, so now I have to bear him on my own!" "You always were a brave girl," Ralph told her and ran the soapy flannel cares singly down her smooth back.
"And now the word has gone out to every dead-beat and drifter in Matabeleland that he is here and they are riding in from every direction for the free whisky." "Mr. Rhodes is a generous man," Ralph agreed, and tenderly slid the soapy flannel over her shoulder and down the front.
"It is your whisky," said Cathy, and caught his wrist before the flannel could reach its obvious destination.
"The man has an infernal nerve." For the first time Ralph showed some emotion. "We will have to get rid of him. That whisky is worth 10 pounds a bottle in Bulawayo." Ralph managed to slip the flannel a little further south.
"Ralph, that tickles." Cathy wriggled.
"When are your twin sisters arriving?" He ignored her protest.
"They sent a runner ahead, they should be here before nightfall.
Ralph, give me that flannel immediately!" "We will see how steely Mr. Rhodes" nerves really are-" "Ralph I can do that myself, thank you kindly, give me the flannel!" "And we will also see how sharp Harry Mellow's reflexes are-" "Ralph, are you crazy? We are in the bath!"
"We will take care of both of them with one stroke." "Ralph, you can'd You can't not in the bath!" "We will have Jordan out of your kitchen, Harry Mellow overseer of the Harkness Mine and Mr. Rhodes on his way to Bulawayo an hour after those two arrive "Ralph, darling, do stop talking. I can't concentrate on two things at once," Cathy murmured.
The tableau at the trestle-table in the dining tent seemed unaltered since Ralph had last seen it, rather like one of the productions at Madame Tussaud's Waxworks. Mr. Rhodes even wore the same clothing as he dominated the tent with his expansive charisma.
Only the bit players seated in the position of petitioners facing the long table had changed. These were a motley bunch of out-of-luck prospectors, concession-seekers, and impecunious promoters of ambitious ventures, who had been attracted by Mr. Rhodes" reputation and millions like jackal and hyena to the lion's kill.
It was the mode in Matabeleland to display one's individuality by adopting eccentric headgear, and the selection which faced Mr. Rhodes across the table included a Scottish bonnet with an eagle feather pinned to the brim by a yellow cairngorm, a tall brushed beaver girl with a green St. Patrick's ribbon, and a magnificent embroidered Mexican sombrero, the owner of which was relating a meandering tale of woe which Mr. Rhodes cut short. He did not enjoy listening as much as he did talking.
"So then, you've had enough of Africa, have you? But you haven't the passage money? "he asked brusquely.
"That's it exactly, Mr. Rhodes, you see my old mother-" "Jordan, give the fellow a chi tty to see him home, and charge it to me personally." He waved away the man's thanks, and looked up as Ralph came into the tent.
"Harry tells me your trip was a great success. He panned your crushings from the Harkness reef at thirty ounces a ton, that's thirty times richer than the best ban ket reef of the Witwatersrand. I think we should open a bottle of champagne. Jordan, don't we have a few bottles of the Pommery'87 left?" "At least I'm not providing the champagne as well as the whisky," Ralph thought cynically, as he lifted his glass to the toast. "The Harkness Mine." He joined the dutiful chorus and the moment he had drunk he turned on Dr. Leander Starr Jameson.
"What is this about the mining laws?" he demanded. "Harry tells me you are adopting the American mining code." "Do you have any objection?" Jameson flushed, and his sandy moustache bristled.
"That code was drawn up by lawyers to keep themselves in fat fees in perpetuity. The new Witwatersrand laws are simpler and a million times more workable. By God, isn't it enough that your Company royalty will rob us of fifty per cent of our profits?" As Ralph said it, it dawned upon him that the American mining code would be a smoke-screen behind which the artful Rhodes could manoeuvre at will.
"Remember, young Ballantyne," Jameson stroked his moustache, and blinked piously. "Remember who the country belongs to. Remember who paid the costs of the occupation of Mashonaland and who financed the Matabele war." "Government by a commercial company." Despite himself, Ralph felt his anger rising again and he clenched his hands on the table in front of him. "A company that owns the police force and the courts. And if I have a dispute with your Company, who will decide it surely not the BSA Company's own magistrate?" "There are precedents."
