The Black Opal by Katharine Susannah Prichard (english novels to improve english TXT) 📕

the strip of dirty flannel, folded it into his leather wallet, and dropped that into his coat pocket. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up.

Big and swarthy, with eyes which took a deeper colour from the new blue shirt he had on, Jun stood an inch or so above the other men.

“Well,” he said, “you boys have put it across me tonight. You’ve made a mistake⁠ ⁠… but I’m not one to bear malice. You done right if you thought I wasn’t going to deal square by Rum-Enough⁠ ⁠… but I’ll lay you any money you like I’d ’ve made more money for him by selling his stones than he’ll make himself⁠—Still, that’s your business⁠ ⁠… if you want it that way. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m just where I was⁠—in luck. And you chaps owe me something.⁠ ⁠… Come and have a drink.”

Most of the men, who believed Jun was behaving with better grace than they had expected him to, moved off to have a drink with him. They were less sure than they had been earlier in the evening that they had done Rouminof a good turn by giving him possession of his share of the opals. It was just on the cards, they realised as Jun said, that instead of doing Rouminof a good turn, if Jun had been going to deal squarely by him, they had done him a rather bad one. Paul was pretty certain to make a mess of trading his own stones, and to get about half their value from an opal-buyer if he insisted on taking them down to Sydney to sell himself.

“What’ll you do now your fortune’s fixed up, Rummy?” George Woods asked, jokingly, when he and two or three men were left with Paul by the table.

“I’ll get out of this,” Paul said. “We’ll go down to Sydney⁠—me and Sophie⁠—and we’ll say goodbye to the Ridge for good.”

The men laughed. It was the old song of an outsider who cared nothing for the life of the Ridge, when he got a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of opal. He thought he was made for life and would never come back to the Ridge; but he always did when his money was spent. Only Michael, standing a little behind George Woods, did not smile.

“But you can’t live forever on three or four hundred quid,” Watty Frost said.

“No,” Paul replied eagerly, “but I can always make a bit playing at dances, and Sophie’s going to be a singer. You wait till people hear her sing.⁠ ⁠… Her mother was a singer. She had a beautiful voice. When it went we came here.⁠ ⁠… But Sophie can sing as well as her mother. And she’s young. She ought to make a name for herself.”

He wrapped the stones before him in a piece of wadding, touching them reverently, and folded them into the tin cigarette box Michael had given him to carry about the first stones Jun had let him have. He was still mystified over the business of the evening, and why the boys had made Jun give him the other stones. He had been quite satisfied for Jun to hold most of the stones, and the best ones, as any man on the Ridge would be for his mate to take care of their common property. There was a newspaper lying on the table. He took it, wrapped it carefully about his precious box, tied a piece of strong string round it, and let the box down carefully into the big, loose pocket of his shabby coat.

IV

Watty and George were well satisfied with their night’s work when they went out of the bar into the street. Michael was with them. He said nothing, but they took it for granted he was as pleased as they were at what had been done and the way in which it had been done. Michael was always chary of words, and all night they had noticed that what they called his “considering cap” had been well drawn over his brows. He stood smoking beside them and listening abstractedly to what they were saying.

“Well, that’s fixed him,” Watty remarked, glancing back into the room they had just left.

Jun was leaning over the bar talking to Newton, the light from the lamp above, on his red, handsome face, and cutting the bulk of his head and shoulders from the gloom of the room and the rest of the men about him. Peter Newton was serving drinks, and Jun laughing and joking boisterously as he handed them on to the men.

“He’s a clever devil!” George exclaimed.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“Shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t clear out by the coach tomorrow,” George said.

“Nor me,” Watty grunted.

“Well, he won’t be taking Paul with him.”

“Not tomorrow.”

“No.”

“But Rummy’s going down to town soon as he can get, he says.”

“Yes.”

“Say, Michael, why don’t you try scarin’ him about losing his stones like Bill Olsen did?”

“I have.”

“What does he say?”

“Says,” Michael smiled, “the sharks won’t get any of his money or opal.”

Watty snuffed contemptuously by way of exclamation.

“Well, I’ll be getting along,” Michael added, and walked away in the direction of his hut.

George and Watty watched his spare figure sway down the road between the rows of huts which formed the Fallen Star township. It was a misty moonlight night, and the huts stood dark against the sheening screen of sky, with here and there a glow of light through open doorways, or small, square window panes.

“It’s on Michael’s mind, Rum-Enough’s going and taking Sophie with him,” George, said.

“I don’t wonder,” Watty replied. “He’ll come a cropper, sure as eggs.⁠ ⁠… And what’s to become of her? Michael ’d go to town with them if he had a bean⁠—but he hasn’t. He’s stony, I know.”

Even to his mate he did not say why he knew, and George did not ask, understanding Watty’s silence. It was not very long since George himself had given Michael a couple of pounds; but he had a very good idea