“Son,” he said. “If I was buying a book, it wouldn’t be to read. It would be for the paper. I’m weary to death of using mealie cobs.” Barney stared at him almost in horror. The man laughed. “Just joking, son. How much do you want for your book?”
Barney swallowed. When he had started out that morning he hadn’t given the necessary thought to the question of price. He knew what a used, worn, dog-eared book like the one he was offering would be worth back in the East End of London — a few pennies at the very most — but in a mining camp most likely hungry for any reading material at all, it could be worth anything. The man was staring at him.
“Well?”
Barney made up his mind. When you didn’t know the true current value of something, then you didn’t sell it. At the worst you traded it for something of equally unknown value.
“I’ll fell you,” he said. “You can have the book for lettin’ me go through the dirt you already culled.” He pointed to the pile behind the table, a pile formed by the men scraping it from the table when they were through searching it.
The man stared at him a moment and shrugged. “You don’t seem to put much value on your book. Me and my friend here, we don’t miss very much. But if you want to waste your time and hand over a book at the same time, I’m not the one to teach anyone his business.” He pointed to the dirt pile. “Go ahead. Have fun.”
“Right!” Barney said happily. At least he was involved in diamond mining if only at the worst possible end of it. He dragged his pack over to the pile and sat down on the ground, starting to riffle through the culled dirt with his fingers. The man tossed him one of the spatulas they were using on the sorting table.
“My contribution,” he said dryly, and went back to work.
The day dragged on. Several times Barney saw a faint sparkle in the dirt; each time he scraped it off and studied it. The bits he was uncovering were each the size of a pinhead, but he still carefully separated them from the yellowish soil, rubbed each one as clean as he could considering its tiny size, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He had four of them, each infinitesimal in size, when a small man came into the yard, carrying a small wooden box in one hand. He was a thin, gray-haired, ferret-faced man with a seamed face, tiny suspicious eyes, and dressed in typical digger’s clothes, wearing one of the wide leather belts with pouches the sorters and the diggers used to keep their stones in. The man set his small box on the edge of the sorting table, opened it, and brought out a small balance scale. He smiled, a smile that started at his lips and ended there, not touching his tiny eyes, a smile that exhibited stained, broken teeth. He looked around.
“Well? Anything for me today?”
The bearded man at the sorting table dug into his belt, bringing out the day’s find. Barney, watching with fascination, estimated there were at least ten to twelve fairly decent-sized stones in the palm of his hand. He dumped them into the pan of the scale and watched as the other man drew a loupe from a pocket of his jacket and examined each stone carefully. At last he separated the stones into three groups and began weighing them. When at last he was finished he drew out a pad and pencil and began making calculations on the paper. At last he looked up.
“Eight pounds for the lot,” he said.
The sorter didn’t even bother to comment; he merely tilted the contents of the pan back into his palm, added to it the other stones, and returned them all to his belt. He buttoned the pouch holding the stones and shook his head. “That’s insane,” he said. “That don’t pay labor, either ours nor the boys’. Not to mention Mac and the others down in the hole digging the stuff.”
The kopje walloper shrugged; his voice took on a whine. “If I pay more then I don’t get paid for my time. These are tough times, Jerry. You know that.”
“I also know I’m not selling stones at four shilling a carat when they bring eighteen in London, tough times or not,” Jerry said flatly, and turned back to the table, paying no further attention to the small gray-haired man. The man shrugged, put his scales back into their box, and was about to leave when Barney came up to him.
“Hey — are you a… a kopje walloper?”
The man merely looked at him, resentful of his time being taken by a young boy. “No,” he said sarcastically. “I’m a trader who goes around with his shop in his pocket. What d’you want?”
Barney dipped into his shirt pocket, bringing out the results of his day’s endeavor. “How about these?”
The man stared into Barney’s palm and then looked up with an ugly expression on his thin face. His tiny eyes had narrowed even further. “Are you funning with me, boy?”
“No, sir! D’they… d’they have any value?”
The man studied Barney’s face a few moments and then came to the conclusion that the boy was serious. “I’ll give you sixpence for them,” he said. He reached into his pocket, brought out a coin, and placed it on the edge of the sorting table. Then he reached over and knocked Barney’s hand in the air. The tiny stones went flying. “That’s what they’re really worth,” he said, and chuckled at his joke. Then he picked up his box and stumped from the yard.
“Not a very friendly chap,” Jerry said as he watched for Barney’s reaction. The boy looked as if he might have a temper. But the boy’s reaction was not at all what he had expected.
“It’s a tanner, ain’t it?” Barney said, and grinned. “He was offerin’ four shilling a carat. On that basis, was them tiny bitsy things I had worth any sixpence?”
“They were not,” Jerry admitted.
“Then he cheated himself, and he’s a bloody fool,” Barney said, and picked up his pack. “Well, thanks, fellow.” And he walked from the yard, whistling.
When he got back to the tent he saw that Harry had shaved and put on clean clothes. There was a pot of steaming tea set to one side of the fire and Harry had put some mealies on to boil. It appeared that the area around the tent had also been picked up and swept, and the rip in the side of the tent had been repaired, albeit not too neatly. Still, it was something. And even the smell seemed to have dissipated. Or else I’m gettin’ used to it, Barney thought. Harry waved a hello to him.
“How did it go today? Sell any books?”
Barney shrugged. “I practically gave ’un away, and on top of that I worked all day for a sixpence I didn’t even earn. But it was worth it. I learned somethin’. I was cullin’ already culled dirt; that was in trade for the book. I got the sixpence on the side because some nasty bloke thought he was bein’ funny.” He told Harry about it, grinning. Then his grin faded. “But y’know,” he said slowly, “sittin’ there siftin’ dirt gives a bloke plenty of time to think. And I got ideas.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“Well,” Barney said, sitting down beside the fire, “first, about the books. I was bein’ stupid. Why sell them when they could be let out, say, at a penny a day?”
“You mean, rent, like? Books?”
“Why not?” Barney asked, almost curiously. “A bloke buys a book, say he pays a tanner for it, maybe a bob. It lays around once he’s read it, or maybe even before he’s read it. That’s a bloody waste of readin’, especially in a place where they ain’t got too many books. But if he pays a penny a day, then he’s goin’ to read it quick as he can, and get it back. That way lots more people get a chance to read it. See?”