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

“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 not 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, “swappin’ 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.”

The men turned to the door, judging from Mr. Armitage’s tone that what he had to say was for Michael alone.

“I’ll just have a look if that bally mare of mine’s all right, Mr. Armitage,” Peter Newton said.

He went to the door, and the rest of the men followed him.

“Well, Michael,” Dawe Armitage said when the men had gone out, “I guess you know what it is I want to talk to you about.”

Michael jerked his head slightly by way of acknowledgment.

“That little girl of yours.”

Michael smiled. It always pleased and amused him to hear people talk as if he and not Paul were Sophie’s father.

“She”⁠—old Armitage leaned back on the sofa, and a shade of perplexity crossed his face⁠—“I’ve seen a good deal of her, Michael, and I’ve tried to keep an eye on her⁠—but I don’t mind admitting to you that a man needs as many eyes as a centipede has legs to know what’s coming to him where Sophie’s concerned. But first of all⁠ ⁠… she’s well⁠ ⁠… and happy⁠—at least, she appears to be; and she’s a great little lady.”

He brooded a moment, and Michael smoked, watching his face as though it were a page he were trying to read.

“You know, she’s singing at one of the theatres in New York, and they say she’s doing well. She’s sought after⁠—made much of. She’s got little old Manhattan at her feet, as they say.⁠ ⁠… I don’t want to gloss over anything that son of mine may have done⁠—but to put it in a nutshell, Michael, he’s in love with her. He’s really in love with her⁠—wants to marry her, but Sophie won’t have him.”

Michael did not speak, and he continued:

“And there’s this to be said for him. She says it. He isn’t quite so much to blame as we first thought. Seems he’d been making love to her⁠ ⁠… and did a break before.⁠ ⁠… He didn’t mean to be a blackguard, y’ see. You know what I’m driving at, Michael. He loved the girl and went⁠—She says when she knew he had gone away, she went after him. Then⁠—well, you know, Michael⁠ ⁠… you’ve been young⁠ ⁠… you’ve been in love. And in Sydney⁠ ⁠… summertime⁠ ⁠… with the harbour there at your feet.⁠ ⁠…

“They were happy