"That's Potch," Michael said.
"Potch?"
The small, round eyes, brown with black rims and centres, beginning to dull with age, winked over Potch, and in that moment Dawe Armitage was trying to discover what his chances of getting possession of the stone he had come to see, were with the man who had found it.
"Con--gratulate you, young man," he said, holding out his hand. "I've come, Lord knows how many miles, to have a look at that stone of yours."
Potch shook hands with him.
"They tell me it's the finest piece of opal ever come out of Ridge earth," the old man continued. "Well, I couldn't rest out there at home without havin' a look at it. To think there was an opal like that about, and I couldn't get me fingers on it! And when I thought how it was I'd never even see it, perhaps, I danged 'em to Hades--doctors, family and all--took me passage out here. Ran away! That's what I did." He chuckled with reminiscent glee. "And here I am."
"Cleared out, did y', Mr. Armitage?" Watty asked.
"That's it, Watty," old Armitage answered, still chuckling. "Cleared out.... Family'll be scarrifyin' the States for me. Sent 'em a cable when I got here to say I'd arrived."
Michael and George laughed with Watty, and the old man looked as pleased with himself as a schoolboy who has brought off some soul-satisfying piece of mischief.
"Tell you, boys," he said, "I felt I couldn't die easy knowing there was a stone like that about and I'd never clap eyes on it.... Know you chaps'd pretty well turned me down--me and mine--and I wouldn't get more than a squint at the stone for my pains. You're such damned independent beggars! Eh, Michael? That's the old argument, isn't it? How did y' like those papers I sent you--and that book ... by the foreign devil--what's his name? Clever, but mad. Y'r all mad, you socialists, syndicalists, or whatever y'r call y'rselves nowadays.... But, for God's sake, let me have a look at the stone now, there's a good fellow."
Michael looked at Potch.
"You get her, Potch," he said.
Potch put his hand to the top of the shelf where, in ah old tin, the great opal lay wrapped in wadding, with a few soft cloths about it. He put the tin on the table. Michael pushed the table toward the sofa on which Mr. Armitage was sitting. The old man leaned forward, his lips twitching, his eyes watering with eagerness. Potch's clumsy fingers fumbled with the wrappings; he spread the wadding on the table. The opal flashed black and shining between the rags and wadding as Potch put it on the table. Michael had lighted a candle and brought it alongside.
Dawe Armitage gaped at the stone with wide, dazed eyes.
"My!" he breathed; and again: "My!" Then: "She was worth it, Michael,"
fell from him in an awed exclamation.
He looked up, and the men saw tears of reverence and emotion in his eyes. He brushed them away and put out his hand to take the stone. He lifted the stone, gently and lovingly, as if it were alive and might be afraid at the approach of his wrinkled old hand. But it was not afraid, Potch's opal; it fluttered with delight in the hand of this old man, who was a devout lover, and rayed itself like a bird of paradise. Even to the men who had seen the stone before, it had a new and uncanny brilliance. It seemed to coquet with Dawe Armitage; to pour out its infinitesimal stars---red, blue, green, gold, and amethyst--blazing, splintering, and coruscating to dazzle and bewilder him.
The men exclaimed as Mr. Armitage moved the opal. Then he put the stone down and mopped his forehead.
"Well," he said, "I reckon she's the God-damnedest piece of opal I've ever seen."
"She is that," Watty declared.
"What have you got on her, Michael?" Dawe Armitage queried.
A faint smile touched Michael's mouth.
"I'm only asking," Armitage remarked apologetically. "I can tell you, boys, it's a pretty bitter thing for me to be out of the running for a stone like this. I ain't even bidding, you see--just inquiring, that's all."
Michael looked at Potch.
"Well," he said, "it's Potch's first bit of luck, and I reck'n he's got the say about it."
The old man looked at Potch. He was a good judge of character. His chance of getting the stone from Michael was remote; from Potch--a steady, flat look in the eyes, a stolidity and inflexibility about the young man, did hot give Dawe Armitage much hope where he was concerned either.
"They tell me," Mr. Armitage said, the twinkling of a smile in his eyes as he realised the metal of his adversary--"they tell me," he repeated, "you've refused three hundred pounds for her?"
"That's right," Potch said.
"How much do you reck'n she's worth?"
"I don't know."
"How much have you got on her?"
Potch looked at Michael.
"We haven't fixed any price," he said.
"Four hundred pounds?" Armitage asked.
Potch's grey eyes lay on his for the fraction of a second.
"You haven't got money enough to buy that stone, Mr. Armitage," he said, quietly.
The old man was crestfallen. Although he pretended that he had no hope of buying the opal, everybody knew that, hoping against hope, he had not altogether despaired of being able to prevail against the Ridge resolution not to sell to Armitage and Son, in this instance. Potch remarked vaguely that he had to see Paul, and went out of the hut.
"Oh, well," Dawe Armitage said, "I suppose that settles the matter.
Daresay I was a durned old fool to try the boy--but there you are. Well, since I can't have her, Michael, see nobody else gets her for less than my bid."
The men were sorry for the old man. What Potch had said was rather like striking a man when he was down, they thought; and they were not too pleased about it.
"Potch doesn't seem to fancy sellin' at all for a bit," Michael said.
"What!" Armitage exclaimed. "He's not a miser--at his age?"
"It's not that," Michael replied.
"Oh, well"--the old man's gesture disposed of the matter. He gazed at the stone entranced again. "But she's the koh-i-noor of opals, sure enough. But tell me"--he sat back on the sofa for a yarn--"what's the news of the field? Who's been getting the stuff?"
The gossip of Jun and the ratting was still the latest news of the Ridge; but Mr. Armitage appeared to know as much of that as anybody. Ed.
Ventry's boy, who had motored him over from Budda, had told him about it, he said. He had no opinion of Jun.
"A bad egg," he said, and began to talk about bygone days on the Ridge.
There was nothing in the world he liked better than smoking and yarning with men of the Ridge about black opal.
He was fond of telling his family and their friends, who were too nice and precise in their manners for his taste, and who thought him a boor and mad on the subject of black opal, that the happiest times of his life had been spent on Fallen Star Ridge, "swoppin' lies with the gougers"; yarning with them about the wonderful stuff they had got, and other chaps had got, or looking over some of the opal he had bought, or was going to buy from them.
"Oh, well," Mr. Armitage said after they had been talking for a long time, "it's great sitting here yarning with you chaps. Never thought ...
I'd be sitting here like this again...."
"It's fine to have a yarn with you, Mr. Armitage," Michael said.
"Thank you, Michael," the old man replied. "But I suppose I must be putting my old bones to bed.... There's something else I want to talk to you about though, Michael."