“Keep close to the earth?” Potch mused.
“In tune with the fundamentals, all the great things of loving and working—our eyes on the stars.”
“The stars?”
“The objects of our faith and service.”
They were silent again for a while. Then Sophie said:
“You …” she hesitated, remembering what she had told John Armitage—“you and I would fight for the Ridge principle, even if all the others accepted Mr. Armitage’s offer, wouldn’t we, Potch?”
“Of course,” Potch said.
“And Michael?”
“Michael?” His eyes questioned her in the dim light because of the hesitation in her question. “Why do you say that? Michael would be the last man on earth to have anything to do with Armitage’s scheme.”
“He comes back to put the proposition to the men definitely in a few days, doesn’t he?” Sophie asked.
“Yes,” Potch said.
“Have you talked to Michael about it?”
“To tell you the truth, Sophie,” Potch replied slowly, conscience-stricken that he had given the subject so little consideration, “I took it for granted there could only be one answer to the whole thing. … I haven’t thought of it. I’ve only thought of you the last week or so. I haven’t talked to Michael; I haven’t even heard what the men were saying at midday. … But, of course, there’s only one answer.”
“I’ve tried to talk to Michael, but he won’t discuss it with me,” Sophie said.
Potch stared at her.
“You don’t mean,” he said—“you can’t think—”
“Oh,” she cried, with a gesture of desperation, “I know John Armitage is holding something over Michael … and if it’s true what he says, it’ll break Michael, and it’ll go very badly against the Ridge.”
“You can’t tell me what it is?”
Sophie shook her head.
Potch got up; his face settled into grave and fighting lines. Sophie, too, rose from the ground. They went towards the track where the three huts stood facing the scattered dumps of the old Flash-in-the-Pan rush.
“I want to see Michael,” Potch said, when they approached the huts. “I’ll be in, in a couple of minutes.”
Sophie went on to their own home, and Potch, swerving from her, walked across to the back door of Michael’s hut.
XV
Charley was sitting on the couch, leaning towards Michael, his shoulders hunched, his eyes gleaming, when Potch went into the hut.
“You can’t bluff me,” Potch heard him say. “You may throw dust in the eyes of the men here, but you can’t bluff me. … It was you did for me. … It was you put it over on me—took those stones.”
“Well, you tell the boys,” Potch heard Michael say.
His voice was as unconcerned as though it were not anything of importance they were discussing. Potch found relief in the sound of it, but its unconcern drove Charley to fury.
“You know I took them from Paul,” he shouted. “You know—I can see it in your eyes … and you took them from me. When … how … I don’t know. … You must ’ve sneaked into the house when I dozed off for a bit, and put a parcel of your own rotten stuff in their place. … How do I know? Well, I’ll tell you. …”
He settled back on the sofa. “I hung on to the best stone in the lot—clear brown potch with good flame in it—hopin’ it would give me a clue some day to the man who’d done that trick on me. But I couldn’t place the stone; I’d never seen it on you, and Jun had never seen it either. I was dead stony when I sold it to Maud … and I told her why I’d been keeping it, seeing she was in the show at the start off. She sold the stone to Armitage in America, and first thing the old man said when he saw it was: ‘Why, that’s Michael’s mascot!’ ”
“Remembered when you’d got it, he said,” Charley continued, taking Michael’s interest with gratified malice. “First stone you’d come on, on Fallen Star, and you wouldn’t sell—kept her for luck. … Old Armitage wouldn’t have anything to do with the stone then—didn’t believe Maud’s story. … But John Lincoln got it. He told me. …”
“I see,” Michael murmured.
“Don’t mind telling you I’m here to play Armitage’s game,” Charley said.
Michael nodded. “Well, what about it?”
“This about it,” Charley exclaimed irritably, his excitement and impatience rising under Michael’s calmness. “You’re done on the Ridge when this story gets around. What I’ve got to say is … you took the opals. You’ve got ’em. You’re done for here. But you could have a good life somewhere else. Clear out, and—”
“We’ll go halves, eh?” Michael queried.
“That’s it,” Charley assented. “I’ll clear out and say nothing—although I’ve told Rummy enough already to give him his suspicions. Still, suspicions are only suspicions—nothing more. When I came here I didn’t even mean to give you this chance. … But ‘Life is sweet, brother!’ There’s still a few pubs down in Sydney, and a woman or two. I wouldn’t go out with such a grouch against things in general if I had a flash in the pan first. … And it’d suit you all right, Michael. … With this scheme of Armitage’s in the wind—”
“And suppose I haven’t got the stones?” Michael inquired.
Charley half rose from the sofa, his thin hands grasping the table.
“It’s a lie!” he shrieked, shivering with impotent fury. “You know it is. … What have you done with ’em then? What have you done with those stones—that’s what I want to know!”
“You haven’t got much breath,” Michael said; “you’d better save it.”
“I’ll use all I’ve got to down you, if you don’t come to light,” Charley cried. “I’ll do it, see if I don’t.”
Potch walked across to his father. He had heard Charley abusing and threatening Michael before without being able to make out what it was all about. He had thought it bluff and something
