Their empty plates were removed and a large steaming succulent joint was brought before them. Harry dug in at once, slabbing off chunks and stuffing them into his mouth. He raised his hand, pointing to their empty beer mugs, and drank deeply when they were refilled. Barney waited until his brother’s hunger had been at least partially satisfied before pressing for the third way to make money in diamonds.
“Ah! The third way, and by far the best way,” Harry said between his chewing and swallowing, “is to become a diamond merchant — a trader. He buys, almost at his own price today, and ships the stones off to London at a huge profit, even at today’s depressed market. But that, of course, requires a great deal of capital, because the bigger and better stones are expensive, and because he deals in quantity. Just the rent alone on an office on the Main Street is more than most diggers earn in a month.” He leaned back, finally sated, and reached into a pocket for a toothpick, applying it as he talked. “Which one d’you think you’d like for a start?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have enough money for any of them. And you don’t look particularly rich.”
“Of course, there are other ways to make money in Kimberley,” Harry said. “Open a bar. Or a greengrocer’s. Or dig a well and sell water. Actually, water isn’t a bad idea. A smart man would bring in a pump and pump out the claims when they get flooded, which they do whenever it rains hard, or whenever they dig into a spring. The man who brings in the first pump is going to get rich. Only nobody’s thought of it yet.”
“Somebody has,” Barney said.
Harry’s eyebrows went up. Barney nodded.
“The wagon I came on was bringing the parts for a steam pump for some bloke named Rhodes.”
“Ah!” Harry nodded. “Over at De Beers at the Old Rush. Only he’ll probably put it up at Dutoitspan; they get flooded more often.” He suddenly grinned. “And you know what? He’ll charge for pumping the claims dry, and then sell the water back to the diggers for their crushing and sorting operations. Brilliant! I thought of it a long time ago, but” — Harry sighed — “no money. No capital.”
And if Harry had had the money, Barney thought dispassionately, my brother would have been thinking of another idea, another scheme, and end up doing nothing about either. As he managed to find fifteen excuses not to rent a claim and dirty his hands digging for the stones. It was a pity Harry was like that, but Barney had no intention of allowing his brother’s indolence to affect him. He became aware that their waitress was standing at their side and that Harry was looking at him in a slightly embarrassed manner.
“Barney — I’m afraid I forgot my purse…”
“How much is it?” Barney asked, reaching for his pocket and really not at all surprised.
“Two pounds…”
“Two—!” Barney swallowed. Almost half as much as it would have cost him for his entire trip across the Karroo had Andries charged him! It was lucky he had managed to make himself useful on the trail. Two quid for one meal! He had heard that Kimberley was expensive, but two bloody quid? Still, he thought as he reluctantly took two worn one-pound notes from his purse and laid them on the waitress’s palm, it was worth it in a way for the information Harry had given him. Or it had better be worth it in a very short time, because it was certain that unless he got cracking and made money in a hurry, his small reserve wouldn’t last very long!
The pack on Barney’s back had a familiar feel to it; in Petticoat Lane he had often gone out with a pack, peddling anything he had been able to buy at a cheap enough price and sell at a profit no matter how smalclass="underline" the best he could select from the remains when the fruits or vegetables had already been picked over in Covent Garden; the best of the rags from the various pickers for his mother to wash and repair to be later peddled to those even poorer than the poor devil who had sold the rag in the first place. Anything that could be bought and sold — anything not new, that is — Barney was sure he had handled in his few years.
This time his pack — a hastily contrived affair made from one of his worn shirts and carried slung over his shoulder and held by the tied sleeves — contained the books he had brought with him. It was a sacrifice Barney was sure he would regret in time, but he had learned early in life that one sells whatever one feels has value at the moment, and he was sure there had to be a good market for reading material in the culturally starved camp. Certainly he knew if he had money he wouldn’t be selling his books, but would be in the market for more. That day would come, he was sure, but in the meantime there was the problem of building up his capital. Twenty quid, he had discovered, wouldn’t get a person far in Kimberley.
The first place he stopped was at one of the sorting sheds; the mine itself was obviously out of bounds for anyone attempting to sell anything, unless one wanted to inadvertently get a pickax in his back, or be cut by a swinging shovel. Before the shed, Kaffirs were breaking up the large lumps of yellowish soil that had been carted up from the claim, spreading it about so that the sun and rain, if and when it came, could complete the job of disintegrating the soil into finer lumps that could be searched for diamonds. Soil already broken down was being broken into even smaller bits; a black was shoveling this finer broken earth onto a table in the shade under the shed, where several white men were seated, going over the dirt with small spatulas, breaking it even finer, searching for the elusive sparkle that would denote a diamond. One of them, a large bearded chap, looked up at Barney’s approach, took in the small body carrying the large sacklike pack, and then returned his attention to the sorting table and his work.
“Whatever you’re peddling, son, we don’t want none,” he said.
Barney grinned down at the back of the man’s head, his friendliest grin, even though it was being wasted. He put as much charm as he could into his voice. “Come, now, man! Now, if I was peddlin’ pound notes for fifteen bob, d’you mean you wouldn’t be interested?”
“Interested in seeing you in quod for a Jeremy Diddler,” the second man said cheerfully without looking up from his task.
“What about if I was peddlin’ a even greater bargain, and no cheat at all about it? Food for your brain, man, better than the poor stuff you put into your belly three times a day?”
The first man looked up. “What are you talking about, son?”
“Books!” Barney set the pack down and reached in, taking the first one that came to hand, bringing it out. He looked at the title on the worn spine; it was The Bells. He hastily returned it to the sack and brought out another. “Ah! The immortal Shakespeare! One of the best things ’e ever done — a bit called Macbet’! You gentlemen got to know it an’ appreciate it like all the coves o’ London. ‘Macbet’ shall never be vanquished’ — that’s vanquished be — ’until Great Birnam Wood to ’igh Dunsinane shall come against ’im!’ What d’you say, gents?” Barney had unconsciously dropped into broad Cockney; his voice had taken on the tones of a pitch artist. The man looked at him a moment, turned to his partner and winked, and then came back to Barney, sighing.