The Black Opal - Katharine Susannah Prichard (open ebook .TXT) 📗

for him to see the gougers in, some pieces of opal, his scales and microscope on the table before him, when Michael knocked.

Absorbed in his reflections, realising there would be little to show for the trouble and pains of his long journey, and reviewing a slowly germinating scheme and dream for the better output of opal from Fallen Star, John Armitage did not at first pay any attention to the knock.

He had been thinking a good deal of Michael in connection with that scheme. Michael, he knew, would be his chief opponent, if ever he tried putting it into effect. When he had outlined his idea and vaguely formed plans to his father, Dawe Armitage would have nothing to do with them. He swept them aside uncompromisingly.

“You don’t know what you’re up against,” he said. “There isn’t a man on the Ridge wouldn’t fight like a polecat if you tried it on ’em. Give ’em a word of it⁠—and we quit partnership, see? They wouldn’t stand for it⁠—not for a second⁠—and there’d be no more black opal for Armitage and Son, if they got any idea on the Ridge you’d that sort of notion at the back of your head.”

But John Armitage refused to give up his idea. He went to it as a dog goes to a planted bone⁠—gnawed and chewed over it, contemplatively.

He had made this trip to Fallen Star with little result, and he was sure a system of working the mines on scientific, up-to-date lines would ensure the production of more stone. He wanted to talk organisation and efficiency to men of the Ridge, to point out to them that organisation and efficiency were of first value in production, not realising Ridge men considered their methods both organised and efficient within their means and for their purposes.

Michael knocked again, and Armitage called:

“Come in!” When he saw who had come into the room, he rose and greeted Michael warmly.

“Oh, it’s you, Michael!” he said, with a sense of guilt at the thoughts Michael had interrupted. “I wondered what on earth had become of you. The old man gave me no end of messages, and there are a couple of magazines for you in my grip.”

“Thank you, Mr. Armitage,” Michael replied.

“Well, I hope you’ve got some good stuff,” Armitage said.

Michael took the chair opposite to him on the other side of the table. “I haven’t got much,” he said.

“I remember Newton told me you’ve been having rotten luck.”

“It’s looked up lately,” Michael said, the flickering wisp of a smile in his eyes. “The boys say Rummy’s a luck-bringer.⁠ ⁠… He’s working with me now, and we’ve been getting some nice stone.”

He took a small packet of opal from his pocket and put it on the table. It was wrapped in newspaper. He unfastened the string, turned back the cotton-wool in which the pieces of opal were packed, and spread them out for Armitage to look at.

Armitage went over the stones. He put them, one by one, under his microscope, and held them to and from the light.

“That’s a nice bit of colour, Michael,” he said, admiring a small piece of grey potch with a black strain which flashed needling rays of green and gold. “A little bit more of that, and you’d be all right, eh?”

Michael nodded. “We’re on a streak now,” he said. “It ought to work out all right.”

“I hope it will.” Armitage held the piece of opal to the light and moved it slowly. “Rouminof’s working with you now⁠—and Potch, they tell me?”

Michael nodded.

“Pretty hard on him, Charley’s getting away with his stones like that!”

John Armitage probed the quiet eyes of the man before him with a swift glance.

“You’re right there, Mr. Armitage,” Michael said. “Harder on Paul than it would have been on anybody else. He’s got the fever pretty bad.”

Armitage laughed, handling a stone thoughtfully.

“I gave Jun a hundred pounds for his big stone. I’d give the same for the other⁠—if I could lay my hands on it, though the boys say it wasn’t quite as big, but better pattern.”

“That’s right,” Michael said.

Silence lay between them for a moment.

“What have you got on the lot, Michael?” Armitage asked, picking up the stones before him and going over them absentmindedly.

“A tenner,” Michael said.

Usually a gouger asked several pounds more than he expected to get. John Armitage knew that; Michael knew he knew it. Armitage played with the stones, hesitated as though his mind were not made up. There was not much more than potch and colour in the bundle. He went over the stones with the glass again.

“Oh well, Michael,” he said, “we’re old friends. I won’t haggle with you. Ten pounds⁠—your own valuation.”

He would get twice as much for the parcel, but the price was a good one. Michael was surprised he had conceded it so easily.

Armitage pulled out his chequebook and pushed a box of cigars across the table. Michael took out his pipe.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Armitage,” he said, “I’m more at home with this.”

“Please yourself, Michael,” Armitage murmured, writing his cheque.

When Michael had put the cheque in his pocket, Armitage took a cigar, nipped and lighted it, and leaned back in his chair again.

“Not much big stuff about, Michael,” he remarked, conversationally.

“George Woods had some good stones,” Michael said.

Armitage was not enthusiastic. “Pretty fair. But the old man will be better pleased with the stuff I got from Jun Johnson than anything else this trip.⁠ ⁠… I’d give a good deal to get the almond-shaped stone in that other parcel.”

Michael realised Mr. Armitage had said the same thing to him before. He wondered why he had said it to him⁠—what he was driving at.

“There were several good stones in Paul’s parcel,” he said.

His clear, quiet eyes met John Armitage’s curious, inquiring gaze. He was vaguely discomfited by Armitage’s gaze, although he did not flinch from it. He wondered what Mr. Armitage knew, that he should look like that.

“It’s been hard on Rouminof,” Armitage murmured again.

Michael agreed.

“After the boys making Jun shell out, too! It doesn’t seem