“How much do you think there is in your packet, Jun?” Archie Cross asked.
Jun stretched his legs under the table.
“A thou’ if there’s a penny.”
Archie whistled.
“And how much do you reckon there is in Rum-Enough’s?” George Woods put the question.
“Four or five hundred,” Jun said; “but we’re evens, of course.”
He leaned across the table and winked at George.
“Oh, I say,” Archie protested, “what’s the game?”
They knew Jun wanted them to believe he was joking, humouring Paul. But that was not what they had arranged this party for.
“Why not let Rum-Enough mind a few of the good stones, Jun?”
“What?”
Jun started and stared about him. It was so unusual for one man to suggest to another what he ought to do, or that there was anything like bad faith in his dealings with his mates, that his blood rose.
“Why not let Rum-Enough mind a few of the good stones?” George repeated, mildly eyeing him over the bowl of his pipe.
“Yes,” Watty butted in, “Rummy ought to hold a few of the good stones, Jun. Y’ see, you might be run into by rats … or get knocked out—and have them shook off you, like Oily did down in Sydney—and it’d be hard on Rummy, that—”
“When I want your advice about how me and my mate’s going to work things, I’ll ask you,” Jun snarled.
“We don’t mind giving it before we’re asked, Jun,” Watty explained amiably.
Archie Cross leaned across the table. “How about giving Paul a couple of those bits of decent pattern—if you stick to the big stone?” he said.
“What’s the game?” Jun demanded, sitting up angrily. His hand went over his stones.
“Wait on, Jun!” Michael said. “We’re not thieves here. You don’t have to grab y’r stones.”
Jun looked about him. He saw that men of the Ridge, in the bar, were all standing round the table. Only Peter Newton was left beside the bar, although Charley Heathfield, on the outer edge of the crowd, regarded him with a smile of faint sympathy and cynicism. Paul leaned over the table before him, and looked from Jun to the men who had fallen in round the table, a dazed expression broadening on his face.
“What the hell’s the matter?” Jun cried, starting to his feet. “What are you chaps after? Can’t I manage me own affairs and me mate’s?”
The crowd moved a little, closer to him. There was no chance of making a break for it.
George Woods laughed.
“Course you can’t, Jun!” he said. “Not on the Ridge, you can’t manage your affairs and your mate’s … your way … Not without a little helpful advice from the rest of us. … Sit down!”
Jun glanced about him again; then, realising the intention on every face, and something of the purpose at the back of it, he sat down again.
“Well, I’m jiggered!” he exclaimed. “I see—you believe old Olsen’s story. That’s about the strength of it. Never thought … a kid, or a chicken, ’d believe that bloody yarn. Well, what’s the advice … boys? Let’s have it, and be done with it!”
“We’ll let bygones be bygones, Jun. We won’t say anything about … why,” George remarked. “But the boys and I was just thinking it might be as well if you and Rum-Enough sort of shared up the goods now, and then … if he doesn’t want to go to Sydney same time as you, Jun, he can deal his goods here, or when he does go.”
No one knew better than Jun the insult which all this seemingly good-natured talking covered. He knew that neither he, nor any other man, would have dared to suggest that Watty, or George, or Michael, were not to be trusted to deal for their mates, to the death even. But then he knew, too, they were to be trusted; that there was not money enough in the world to buy their loyalty to each other and to their mates, and that he could measure their suspicion of his good faith by his knowledge of himself. To play their game as they would have played it was the only thing for him to do, he recognised.
“Right!” he said, “I’m more than willing. In fact, I wouldn’t have the thing on me mind—seein’ the way you chaps ’ve taken it. But ’d like to know which one of you wouldn’t ’ve done what I’ve done if Rum-Enough was your mate?”
Every man was uneasily conscious that Jun was right. Any one of them, if he had Paul for a mate, would have taken charge of the most valuable stones, in Paul’s interest as well as his own. At the same time, every man felt pretty sure the thing was a horse of another colour where Jun was concerned.
“Which one of us,” George Woods inquired, “if a mate’d been set on by a spieler in Sydney, would’ve let him stump his way to Brinarra and foot it out here … like you let old Olsen?”
Jun’s expression changed; his features blenched, then a flame of blood rushed over his face.
“It’s a lie,” he yelled. “He cleared out—I never saw him afterwards!”
“Oh well,” George said, “we’ll let bygones be bygones, Jun. Let’s have a look at that flat stone.”
Jun handed him the stone.
George held it to the light.
“Nice bit of opal,” he said, letting the light play over it a moment, then passed it on to Michael and Watty.
“You keep the big stone, and Paul’ll have this,” Archie Cross said.
He put the stone beside Paul’s little heap of gems.
Jun sat back in his chair: his eyes smouldering as the men went over his opals, appraising and allotting each one, putting some before Rouminof, and some back before him. They dealt as judicially with the stones as though they were a jury of experts, on the case—as they really were. When their decisions were made, Jun had still rather the better of the stones, although the division had been as nearly fair as possible.
Paul was too dazed and amazed to speak. He glanced dubiously from his stones to Jun, who rolled his opals back in
