“Easy does it, Potch,” he remarked, watching the boy’s steady slogging. “We’ve got no reason to bust ourselves in this mine.”
At four o’clock they put their tools back against the wall and went above ground. Michael fell in with the Crosses, who were noodling two or three good-looking pieces of opal Archie had taken out during the afternoon, and Potch streaked away through the scrub in the direction of the Old Town.
Michael wondered where he was going. There was a purposeful hunch about his shoulders as if he had a definite goal in view. Michael had intended asking his new mate to go down to the New Town and get the meat for their tea, but he went himself after he had yarned with Archie and Ted Cross for a while.
When he returned to the hut, Potch was not there. Michael made a fire, unwrapped his steak, hung it on a hook over the fire, and spread out the pannikins, tin plates and knives and forks for his meal, putting a plate and pannikin for Potch. He was kneeling before the fire giving the steak a turn when Potch came in. Potch stood in the doorway, looking at Michael as doubtfully as a stray kitten which did not know whether it might enter.
“That you, Potch?” Michael called.
“Yes,” Potch said.
Michael got up from the fire and carried the grilled steak on a plate to the table.
“Well, you were nearly late for dinner,” he remarked, as he cut the steak in half and put a piece on the other plate for Potch. “You better come along and tuck in now … there’s a great old crowd down at Nancarrow’s this evening. First time for nearly a month he’s killed a beast, and everybody wants a bit of steak. Sam gave me this as a sort of treat; and it smells good.”
Potch came into the kitchen and sat on the box Michael had drawn up to the table for him.
“Been bringing in the goats for Sophie,” he jerked out, looking at Michael as if there were some need of explanation.
“Oh, that was it, was it?” Michael replied, getting on with his meal. “Thought you’d flitted!”
Potch met his smile with a shadowy one. A big, clumsy-looking fellow, with a dull, colourless face and dingy hair, he sat facing Michael, his eyes anxious, as though he would like to explain further, but was afraid to, or could not find words. His eyes were beautiful; but they were his father’s eyes, and Michael recoiled to qualms of misgiving, a faint distrust, as he looked in them.
It was Ed Ventry, however, who gave Potch his first claim to the respect of men of the Ridge.
“How’s that boy of Charley Heathfield’s?” was his first question when the coach came in from Budda, the following week.
“All right,” Newton said. “Why?”
“He was near killed,” Mr. Ventry replied. “Stopped us up at the Three Mile that morning I was taking Charley and Jun down. He was all for Charley stopping … getting off the coach or something. I didn’t get what it was all about—money Charley’d got from Michael, I think. That’s the worst of bein’ a bit hard of hearin’ … and bein’ battered about by that yaller-bay horse I bought at Warria couple of months ago.”
“Potch tried to stop Charley getting away, did he?” Newton asked with interest.
“He did,” Ed Ventry declared. “I pulled up, seein’ something was wrong … but what does that goddamned blighter Charley do but give a lurch and grab me reins. Scared four months’ growth out of the horses—and away they went. I’d a colt I was breakin’ in on the offside—and he landed Potch one—kicked him right out, I thought. As soon as I could, I pulled up, but I see Potch making off across the plain, and he didn’t look like he was much hurt. … But it was a plucky thing he did, all right … and it’s the last time I’ll drive Charley Heathfield. I told him straight. I’d as soon kill a man as not for putting a hand on me reins, like he done—on me own coach, too!”
Snowshoes had drifted up to them as the coach stopped and Newton went out to it. He stood beside Peter Newton while Mr. Ventry talked, rolling tobacco. Snowshoes’ eyes glimmered from one to the other of them when Ed Ventry had given the reason for his inquiry.
“Potch!” he murmured. “A little bit of potch!” And marched off down the road, a straight, stately white figure, on the bare track under the azure of the sky.
VII
“Give y’ three,” Watty said.
“Take ’em.” George Woods did not turn. He was carefully working round a brilliantly fired seam through black potch in the shin cracker he had been breaking through two or three days before.
It was about lunch time, and Watty had crawled from his drive to the centre of the mine. Cash was still at work, crouched against a corner of the alley, a hundred yards or so from George; but he laid down his pick when he heard Watty’s voice, and went towards him.
“Who d’you think Michael’s got as third man?”
“Snowshoes?”
“No.”
“Old Bill Olsen?”
Watty could not contain himself to the third guess.
“Rum-Enough!” he said.
“He would.” George chipped at the stone round his colour. “It was bound to be a lame dog, anyhow—and it might as well’ve been Rummy as anybody.”
“That’s right,” Cash conceded.
“Bill Andrews told me,” Watty said. “They’ve just broke through on the other side of that drive I’m in. …”
“It would be all right,” he went on, “if Paul’d work for Michael like he did for Jun. But is Michael the
