3

November 1872

Cecil John Rhodes was having a nightmare. It was a recurrent bad dream and had the disadvantage of having been based on a true and horrible experience, and therefore it was most difficult to exorcise. The dream came every month or so, and left him disturbed for several days afterward. He had often tried to determine what particular activity or thought triggered the dream, but he had never been able to do so. Something he ate? He didn’t think so; food had little importance for young Cecil Rhodes, and he often ate the same thing day after day, except that some days the dream came and some days it did not.

He could not recall exactly when he had begun having this dream; it had simply occurred as he tossed and turned on his lumpy cot in the heat of a Kimberley night, heat stored during the day by the corrugated iron that made up the walls and roof of the small one-room shack he shared with a friend, Charles Rudd. In his dream he was not in Kimberley; he was still in his brother Frank’s farmhouse outside of Durban, where he had been sent several years before to recover his health from the deterioration it had suffered from the damp English winters.

At the time of the events that kept occurring in Cecil Rhodes’ nightmare, Frank Rhodes had been gone for several months. Tired of cotton farming, he had gone off to the diamond fields on the De Beer brothers’ Vooruitzigt farm, leaving the problem of cotton picking in the hands of his younger brother. He also left behind to handle the in-house chores the housekeeper, a young Matabele woman named Matili Lobolo. Cecil Rhodes knew, or strongly suspected, that Matili was—or at least had been during his brother’s presence—Frank’s mistress. It was a most disturbing thought. Matili, young, earthy, her full lips always wet, her large breasts never bound, exuding sexuality, had moved from being one of the numerous field hands to becoming housekeeper in a remarkably short time, and as housekeeper had been given the room adjoining Frank’s. The thought of his handsome older brother rutting with a woman, any woman, black or white, was disgusting, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was something he preferred not to even think about.

But Matili Lobolo thought about it constantly. In the warm nights, lying alone in her bed with the knowledge that the master’s bed in the next room was empty and had been for some time, she would pass her hands over her full breasts and pinch the nipples lightly, and then slide her hand along her thick thighs and, making a fist, press it tightly between her legs, rubbing, squirming with desire. To go to one of the Kaffirs in the field houses was unthinkable; after having bedded down the master, to return to the hot wrestling that took place in the dirty, smelly shacks beyond the outhouses would have been demeaning, as well as unsatisfactory. Besides, word would have been about the farm in no time, and Matili preferred not to even think about the consequences of such rumors reaching the master when he returned.

If he returned. The master was a restless person by nature, and he had been gone a long time, a very long time. The cotton was in and he still hadn’t come back. Maybe he was selling the farm; he had never been happy growing cotton. If so, there would be a new owner, a new master, maybe another Englishman come to South Africa without his woman, as the master had done. But in the meantime—

There was, of course, the master’s younger brother, but he did not look the type. Odd, that one. Never looked at her twice; never looked at any of the other girls who worked in the main house during the day. Never tried to accidentally rub against her body in the narrow passages of the house, or let his hand touch her as if by chance on those places she liked so much to be touched. But that, of course, could just be shyness. Probably never had a girl in his life and was afraid he’d die of fright the first time, or, more likely, make a fool of himself. Nobody died of fright the first time, Matili thought, or the thousandth time, either. The idea made Matili giggle. Oh, he’d undoubtedly be nervous the first time, but they all got over that in a hurry! The thought of the tall, gangling, inexperienced boy under her expert tutelage made her more excited than ever. What was the worst that could happen? He’d spill his seed before she was ready, but that would only be the first time. Then he’d settle down; they always did. And they had the house to themselves. One thing was fairly certain: he’d never tell the master. The first time one had a chance to enjoy kunne he didn’t go around jeopardizing the possibility of getting more of it.

Her mind made up and excited by the thought, Matili threw aside the thin sheet and came to her feet. A simple motion and her shift was on the floor, and then she was walking softly, silently, from the room, naked and tingling slightly from the touch of the night wind on her damp body, and from the anticipation of the lovemaking to come.

The younger master’s room was on the top floor, and she crept up the stairs, one hand brushing the wall, surprised at her own temerity but driven by a force that would not be denied. She tiptoed along the darkened hall and then smiled slightly to find the boy’s door a bit ajar, almost as if he had had the same thought in mind and had practically invited her to join him. She slipped into the room. The moonlight from the high dormer showed the boy sprawled in sleep, the sheet tucked between his naked legs. Matili grinned. She softly tugged the folded sheet loose; the motion brought a response from the sleeping boy. He rolled slightly, ending on his back, his legs apart, his head turned into the pillow, breathing a bit heavily through his mouth. Matili studied the naked body, mentally castigating herself for having waited so many weeks since the master had left. This one was as well endowed as the master, if not better.

She touched herself again in anticipation of the pleasure to come, and slid onto the bed, bending over the sleeping boy, allowing her turgid nipples to brush lightly against his body, starting at his chest and lowering herself slowly until her full breasts cushioned themselves between his legs. She raised herself, stretching out, replacing her breasts with her fingers, cuddling the boy, kneading him sensually, slowly, her breasts now pressed against his side, her lips nuzzling the boy’s neck, pleased with the unconscious response her active fingers were invoking.

The sleeping boy rolled to his side, slowly wakening, becoming aware of the unexpected presence in his bed. Matili grinned, and now that the boy was awake, wasted no more time. Her hand clutched him tightly; she rolled closer to him, one leg thrown over him, bringing him to her, her breasts now pressed tightly against him.

Cecil John Rhodes came fully awake, aware of what was happening. A woman was in his bed, touching him, holding him, trying to couple with him! With a terrified shriek he flung himself backward, pushing the woman away with all his force, and then the girl found herself being struck at, pummeled, the boy’s fists pounding at her in sheer panic, even as he tried to push himself farther away. The shriek had been replaced by a constant hysterical whimper, like an animal in pain, and then the boy had pushed himself over the far side of the bed, forcing it from the wall, and was pounding down the steps, fleeing the horror of the experience.

In the morning at first light, Cecil John Rhodes had packed his bags and had left; gone to join his brother, he told the field hand he had wakened to take him in the Scotch cart to Durban and the coach station. He wondered how long it would be before word of the terrible night would be common knowledge among the field hands and the house servants, spread by Matili. He should have sent her packing even before he left himself, but he knew he could never have faced the girl. However, it made no difference. He knew he would never return to Durban or the farm again.

But the dream returned every now and then, in all its terror, all its horror, the nauseating feel of the woman’s hands on him, defiling him, her body touching his, trying to force him inside her, her sickening lips on his neck, kissing, sucking …

“Cecil, for God’s sake!”

Rhodes sat up with a start, his eyes wild. He was sweating profusely, the covers of the narrow cot flung about it in total disarray, the battered Gladstone bag he used for a bolster for his thin pillow was on the floor behind the bed, thrown there in his frenzy. His brother frowned at him.

“That dream again? What is it, for God’s sake? What on earth happened in Durban?”

“Nothing.”

“Get it off your mind and the dream will probably go away. What was it?”

“Nothing, I said!”

Rhodes swung his long legs to the floor and sat with his head in his hands, waiting until the first strong edge of panic had subsided. At least the time between the dreams was increasing; perhaps eventually the dream would disappear altogether. At last he took a deep breath and looked up, changing the subject.

“When are you leaving?”

Frank Rhodes consulted a heavy pocket watch. “There’s plenty of time. I’m taking the Durban coach at noon.”

“When will you be back?”

Frank shrugged. He was a tall, handsome man dressed quite nattily, with a thin mustache he was sure the ladies all admired. His hair was neatly trimmed and was just the slightest bit longer than the mode. “I don’t know how long it will take to sell the farm; it’s been a year since you left in such a hurry, and at least ten months since I had to go back and try to organize things. God knows what it’s like now, or if any of the field hands are still there. I left sufficient funds with the overseer, but he’s probably skipped as well. If you had only waited at least until the new crop had been planted—”

“When will you be back?”

Frank shrugged again. “I said, I don’t know how long it will take to sell what’s left of the farm. And after that”—he smiled faintly—“I may not be back at all. This mucking about in the ground for a few pretty stones—it really isn’t my style, you know.”

“It pays the bills, and very nicely,” Cecil Rhodes said dryly. The dream was fading fast. “If you don’t come back, where will you go?”

“Ah, that’s a question! Up-country, probably. Bechuanaland, possibly, maybe further.” He smiled a bit maliciously at his younger brother. “Aren’t you the one who’s always lecturing about how England must control all of central Africa? All of Africa, as a matter of fact. Really, all of the world, if I recall some of your more fervent preachings. Why did you have to study with Ruskin?”

Cecil disregarded the rhetorical question. “So in that case, why would you be going to Bechuanaland? Or possibly even further?”

“Well,” Frank said airily, “people have to get up there to see what’s worth controlling and what is not particularly worth controlling, don’t you agree?”

“I agree, except you don’t control a country by going there in dilettante fashion and twirling a cane. Or a mustache, either,” Cecil said quietly. “You control a country with money, and diamonds are money.”

“My! How very adult we’ve become since we discovered a few diamonds. On claims I happened to establish, I might mention in passing. So you keep digging up the pretty stones, brother,” Frank said evenly, “remembering, of course, to save a little of the profits for me.” He thought of something. “You’re taking your roommate, Charley Rudd, in as a partner, are you?”

Cecil Rhodes looked at his brother calmly, coldly. “I was thinking of offering him your share,” he said. “With you gone—and maybe not coming back—I’ll be paying the claim rent, and at least Charley and I will be doing some work for our money.”

Frank Rhodes studied his younger brother through eyes that were no longer amused. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “I do believe our father may well have sired a monster. And to think I helped nurture it!” He sighed and returned to his lighthearted manner again. “Well, there’s nothing in writing, of course, and I suppose these things happen in the best of families. Particularly in the best of families, in fact. So in that case I might as well donate the claims to you; I’d prefer that to having you steal them from me.” He bent down, picking up his bag. “Goodbye. Shall I give anyone back at the farm in Durban your particular regards?”

Cecil Rhodes felt a chill go through him, a trembling he fought to control. His face paled and involuntarily his jaw tightened. Frank pretended not to notice. He touched the brim of his derby with his finger.

“No? In that case I’ll simply say good-bye.”

He winked and walked from the shack, his bag swinging easily at his side. His place was taken a few moments later by Charles Rudd. Rudd was a sandy-haired, stocky man in his mid-twenties, with a bushy blond mustache, dressed in typical digger’s garb, with corduroy trousers, mud-stained and wrinkled, a shirt topped by a bandanna around his neck to keep out the ever-present dust, and high boots for the thick mud of the claims. He glanced over his shoulder as he entered.

“So Frank’s on his way, eh?”

“Yes,” Rhodes said shortly. He was drawing on his trousers, the same kind of digger’s trousers Charley Rudd was wearing, a sharp contrast to his brother’s stylishness.

“You ready to go to work?” There was a twinkle in Rudd’s blue eyes.

Rhodes frowned at the man. He reached for his hat. “Of course. Why?”

“I don’t mean at the claims,” Rudd said, grinning. “I took a ride out south to pick up some food from a farmer out there—half the price of the provisioners in town—and Andries and his wagon are only a mile or so out of town. He’ll be at Dutoitspan by the time we get there, probably. Our pump has finally arrived!”

To Barney, tramping alongside the wagon and thinking of Fay, the first impression he received of the town of Kimberley was far worse than anything he had imagined from the worst of Andries’ diatribes against the place. The town appeared to be nothing except a scattering of tin shacks, rusty and dilapidated, sweltering in the heat of late October. With the exception of the street down which their wagon was slowly making its way, the shacks seemed to have been placed with no particular sense of order, no attempt to locate them in such fashion as to define streets or to face them in any consistent direction so that future streets might be considered. Beyond the central cluster of metal buildings was a sea of tents equally disorganized as far as location was concerned. There was not a tree, a bush, or a blade of grass to be seen.

And the flies! They rose in swarms at the passage of the ox wagon, startled from their feasting on the remains of dead carcasses that lay between the shacks and the tents, entrails of animals slaughtered for food, or of dogs dead of disease or hunger. And the smell! Between the entrails and the open trenches built behind canvas for the human wastes of the town, and then abandoned when full, or improperly filled, the stench could stop a man in his tracks! Andries had been watching Barney. The large Boer pulled his team to a halt before one of the larger buildings along the street. He reached into the wagon, bringing out Barney’s bags, setting them down.

“Here you are, boy. Colesberg Kopje—New Rush—Kimberley. Call it anything you like.”

Barney forced a grin he was far from feeling. “Oh, it ain’t so bad,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “No worse than Petticoat Lane.” But he knew in truth that his mother would have been out with a mop and broom if ever Petticoat Lane had been anything like this.

“Then your Petticoat Lane must be pretty bad,” Andries said wryly. He reached out a hand; Barney took it, shaking it. “It was good having you along, boy,” he said. “I wish you luck.”

“Thanks,” Barney said. He stared at the wagon and the oxen; it had been his home for almost two months. He knew each animal by name, and he knew he would miss them, and miss Andries, too. The ox wagon and Andries had come to be like a second family on the long trek; the thought of not having the security of their presence, Andries and the oxen for their strength, the wagon itself for the sense of protection it gave with all the wonders it seemed to hold within it, even beyond the evident security of food and water, was a bit disturbing. Still, his brother Harry undoubtedly had far better things he could have the use of until he could establish himself and repay Harry. And speaking of repayment—

Barney reached for his purse. “I never paid you the five quid—”

Andries smiled, holding up his hand. “Keep your money. You earned it many times over. I’d never have made it over the mountains without you, boy.”

Barney’s smile widened. “Honest?”

“Honest.”

The smile faded. Barney hated to see the wagon move on. “Then maybe I ought to go with you and help you unload.”

“The men who own this load will be more than happy to unload it. No, you go find your brother.”

“I don’t even know where to start looking for him—”

“Try the bar in that hotel,” Andries said, and pointed.

“Harry don’t drink that much …”

“Other people do. They’ll help you find him.”

“Yeah,” Barney said. There wasn’t much he could do to keep the wagon from moving on. On a sudden impulse he said, “You’ve been a good friend, Andries.”

“No,” Andries said quietly. “If I’d have been a good friend I would have talked you out of Kimberley. If I’d have been a good friend, you would have been going back with me.” He raised his hand in a kind of salute. “Good luck,” he said again, and cracked the sjambok. The team lumbered away, with Barney watching. He stood and watched until the wagon had turned a corner and was out of sight among the tents there. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his bags and marched into the shack marked HOTEL.

To his surprise, despite the fact that the building was constructed totally of corrugated iron, the high ceiling made the place relatively cool. He looked about. The room boasted several tables; at one of them, a man was seated, eating. A door to the rear apparently led to the kitchen and to whatever rooms or outside hovels the “hotel” had available for guests. The bar itself lay along one wall and was simply a wide wooden shelf with empty liquor boxes stacked at intervals to serve as legs; five or six men stood along its length, drinking. It was a far cry from the King of Prussia, with its stained-glass windows, its ancient polished mahogany bar, and the warm, yeasty, friendly smell of beer. Barney set his bags down and walked to the bar. The bartender came over.

“What’ll you have?”

“I’m lookin’ for a fellow,” Barney said. “Name of Harry Isaacs.”

The bartender shook his head. “Don’t know him.”

There was a voice from further along the bar. “Sure you know him, Tim. The juggler bloke. The one does them comic songs, y’know, while he’s standin’ on his head. Hell, he’s in here almost every night.”

“Oh, him? Never did know his name.” He looked at Barney. “Come around about seven tonight. He’ll probably be here.”

“I’d like to find him now. He’s me”—Fay came to mind—“he’s my brother. Where does he live?”

The bartender shrugged. “No idea.” Barney looked down the bar. The men there looked at one another and shook their heads. “I think in one of them tents near the edge of town,” one of the men finally volunteered. He pointed. “Keep wandering down this road that way. Ask somebody when you get down there.”

“Tell them you’re looking for the juggler, the comic that sings at the Paris Hotel,” another said. “That way they’ll know who you mean.”

“Thanks,” Barney said. He picked up his bags and walked out into the street. He would have liked to leave his bags with the bartender, because he was sure his trip to the edge of town, down into that maze of tents, was going to be a wasted one. Harry, with all his money, had to be living in one of the better houses in town. But he wasn’t going to take a chance of having his bags stolen now, not after that two-month trek. The juggler? The comic that sang songs at the Paris Hotel? Probably having a little fun in the evening, once he’d made a pile during the day. Harry was like that.

He came out of the bar and started down the street, his bags banging against his legs. On either side of the street there were shops: provisioners, there a bank, and seemingly about every second shack bearing a sign declaring the occupant to be a diamond trader, offering the finest prices. Except that Barney noted that a lot of them were boarded over. Well, he had known there was a depression in the diamond business, but if Harry could make it big, so could he. He also noted that the streets seemed largely deserted, other than occasional women in long dresses and large sunbonnets doing their shopping. It was eerie, seeing all those shacks and all those tents and very few people, as if they’d all gotten disgusted and left. Like those kids what followed that bloke with the pipes, right into the sea.

The shacks ran out; the little organization that had been attempted in the central cluster of buildings gave way to the total disorganization of the tents. The road also seemingly ran out, and a trail led haphazardly between the canvas shelters. The smell here was even worse than it had been in the town itself; between two of the tents a pair of skinny, mangy dogs, their ribs showing, were snarling over what seemed to be the intestines of some animal. Barney wrinkled his nose in disgust and was about to turn back, sure that Harry could never exist in such filth; then he thought he had come this far and it would do no harm to ask.

He paused at a tent, putting down his bags and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Inside the open flaps a man was sitting disconsolately on the ground, putting his belongings into a small steamer trunk. His bedroll was already strapped shut and was leaning against the main tent pole. Barney cleared his throat; the man looked up.

“I already sold everything I’m goin’ to sell,” the man said. “All except the tent.” He saw Barney’s bags and brightened. “You want to buy a tent?”

“I don’t want to buy nothin’. I’m lookin’ for me brother, Harry Isaacs.” He remembered the suggestion at the bar. “The juggler, y’know. The comic that sings down at the Paris Hotel.”

“Oh, him? Three tents down. Almost the last one. Got a tear in one side, he almost lost it in the last sandstorm. Never got around to fixin’ it.” The man started to pack the trunk again, and then paused. “Say, like I said, I ain’t sold the tent, yet. Maybe he’d be interested; his ain’t no good. You could ask him.”

“I’ll do that,” Barney said, and backed away. It had to be somebody else, some other bloke who sang comic songs. But it sure sounded like Harry! He refused to even consider the thought that had come to him, but hurried down the line, almost dragging his bags. The third tent down had a tear in it; the flap was closed but Barney pushed his way inside. A man was sleeping on the animal skin that served both as rug and bed; a dirty pillow had been pulled over his head to keep out the light. Barney put his bags down, squatted down, and pulled the pillow away. The sleeping man grunted a few times and merely snored a bit louder. Barney shook the man.

“Harry!” He shook harder, looking around the filthy tent as he did so. What a mess! Their mother would have had a fit if she could have seen how her son Harry was living! They lived in poverty back in Petticoat Lane, but the house was always clean, and so were their clothes, even if they were bought as rags and fixed over. “Harry! Wake up!”

His brother rolled over, wondering at the unexpected disturbance, yawning, and then reluctantly opened his eyes. The face beneath the wide-brimmed leather hat was in shadow; Harry frowned and then suddenly smiled, a happy grin, as he came awake and recognized his brother. “Barney! When did you get here? Pa wrote you’d raised the fare to Cape Town, but I figured you’d changed your mind or you would have been here weeks ago!”

“Walked alongside an ox wagon,” Barney said succinctly, and studied his brother. Harry looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days if not in weeks; he looked a mess and smelled it. Barney shook his head. “You look a proper disaster, you do! Ma would die to see you. I thought you’d hit it big up here. That’s what your letter said.”

“My letter. That was—” Harry calculated. “That must have been four months ago I wrote.”

“And you went stony in four months?”

Harry rubbed his chin, looking sheepish. “Well, I was almost positive I was about to hit it big, but—well, the diamonds are an awful business right now.” He reached out and pushed Barney’s hat away, ruffling his brother’s hair as he had done when they were younger. “Here! Let me have a look at you! You look a proper trekker, you do!”

“At least I kept clean on the trail. You look a shame.” A thought came. “When did you eat last?”

“I eat every day,” Harry said, and shrugged. “No banquets; some mealies—that’s what they call maize here, people eat it same as cattle—and down at the Paris they give me a sandwich every night—” He smiled, always the optimist. “I’ve been doing part of our old act down there. The diggers love it!”

Barney looked at him skeptically. “What’s it pay?”

Harry looked a little shamefaced. “Well, you know, Barney, times are very difficult right now. The diggers don’t hardly have enough to feed themselves. Or their families, those poor devils that are unlucky enough to have their families with them. And they have to pay their labor, their Kaffirs. Doesn’t leave much for jugglers or comics in bars.” He looked at his brother, changing the subject. “How’d you find me?”

“Asked at the bar where you do your act.”

“They told you, eh? I tell you, everybody in town knows Harry Isaacs! Say, have you seen the mine yet?”

“Which one?”

“Kimberley, of course. The New Rush. It’s the richest, no matter what anybody says.” He sounds as if he owned a piece of the bloody thing, Barney thought; that’s me brother Harry! Harry came to his feet. “Let me show you the town.”

“What about me bags?”

“What about them?”

“Will they be safe here?”

Harry laughed. “Safer than they would be behind locked doors back in Cobb’s Court, I’ll wager you that! Nobody touches anything in anyone’s tent or shack; if that was to start there’s no telling where it would end. But it would end with somebody hanging, and we’ve done without that ever since this camp was started. No, you needn’t worry on that score. So let me put on a clean shirt and off we’ll go.”

“Only if you give yourself a good wash first,” Barney said, and wrinkled his nose. “You smell, you know.”

“I do?” Harry sounded honestly surprised. “Everything smells so bad here,” he said apologetically, “it gets to a point where you can’t smell anything anymore. Even yourself.”

They walked back toward the town through the tents in the early-afternoon heat, with Harry talking without pause. Barney had a feeling that his brother had had a lonely time of it. He felt no resentment at all that Harry hadn’t made it as big as he had written home; Harry had always been the complete optimist, and Barney had no doubt at all that Harry had honestly felt he was about to strike it rich when he had written. Whatever else the Isaacs boys were, they were not liars; if Harry had a tendency at times to exaggerate, that was something else.

Actually, Barney felt a bit better about everything. Now there would be no need to compete, although in truth there had never been a great deal of competition between the two brothers. Each had his own talents and was aware of it. Harry was the better juggler, the better acrobat, the better tumbler. Harry was also taller, more handsome, and happier. The girls that came into the King of Prussia from the sewing lofts for an ale with their lunch would rumple Barney’s hair and pat his cheek, but they were far bolder where Harry was concerned. Barney sometimes wished he were more like Harry, at least as far as the happiness or the optimism was concerned. But Harry was also willing to concede defeat more readily, possibly because defeat didn’t mean all that much to him. Lose today, gain tomorrow; or if not tomorrow, then the next day or the next week, or maybe never. What difference did it really make? But this was not Barney. Lose today and the loss lived with him a long time, and gaining tomorrow would not make up for it. He hated to be defeated and was smart enough to recognize this as a fault, but it was a fault he did not mind acknowledging.

Harry was explaining the state of the industry.

“The diamonds run out?” he said, and laughed. They were in the town proper and passing the bar where Barney had first stopped, but Harry made no move to turn in. He had a goal in mind, and besides, he was discussing a subject he felt he knew well. “No!” he said firmly. “There are diamonds on top of diamonds in Kimberley, and the same—though less, of course—at Bultfontein, Dutoitspan, and the Old De Beers. Four diamond mines within a few miles of each other, and together they probably contain most of the gemstones in the world! Think of it!”

Barney was thinking of it, thinking of it very hard. “So, if the diamonds are there—” he said slowly.

“Oh, they’re there, all right, in that good old, dear old, sweet old yellow soil,” Harry said with a grin, and did a soft-shoe shuffle in the dust of the roadway. Then his smile faded a bit ruefully and he kicked at the dust. “The only trouble,” he said more softly, “is that it costs more to dig out a carat of diamonds than the kopje wallopers or even the so-called honest traders will pay for it. So some of the miners are giving up and going home. And so are the traders.”

“What’s a kopje walloper?”

“He’s a— Wait a second. There’s the mine.”

They had come through the shacks on the edge of a reef and were staring down at an incredible sight. The mine that had begun as a small hillock rising a few feet above the flat surface of the northern Cape had changed considerably. The hillock had long since disappeared, trees and all; now the hole that had replaced it had been dug to a depth of over a hundred feet in places; and from each tiny square that represented a single claim, several steep cables ran up to the rim of the huge excavation. Tiny carts, foreshortened by distance, could be seen traveling up these cables, carrying the yellowish earth to the rim and beyond to the crushing and the sorting piles. Barney, staring in awe, could see a network of at least a thousand of the cables glinting in the late-afternoon sun; the creak and groan of the small cradles climbing and descending the steel ropes; the cries of men directing, warning, shouting; the whinnying of horses working to turn some of the large wheels on top of the monstrous crater to winch the larger buckets of earth up the steel ropes, all combined to give him an unearthly feeling. It looked like a picture Barney had once seen of a bloke named Gulliver tethered to earth with stringlike ropes, only what was locked to the earth here was the earth itself. And the uneven layers of the mine! And the men swarming below like ants; they could have been the tiny people sweating to tighten the cables on Gulliver! It looked unreal; it looked almost like the etchings he had once seen of the Egyptian slaves—Jews, they was, now he remembered—building the pyramids. The mine was huge beyond anything Barney had ever seen or even dreamed about; it was almost beyond his imagination to think of himself down in that abyss, that inverted anthill, himself, working in that confused disorder.

“Good God!” he said in awestruck tones. “How many bloody men are down there?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise rising from the depths of the mine itself and from the whims and the other lifting wheels and mechanisms arranged around the rim.

Harry smiled broadly, pleased that his Kimberley mine had received the startled adulation he had expected and which it obviously deserved. He raised his voice as well.

“Well,” he said, “figure it out. Each claim is thirty-one feet by thirty-one feet, African measure—which is almost the same as English measure—and the mine is roughly round in shape and about a quarter of a mile across. So figure it out. And each claim may be being worked by as many as six men, maybe one white man to direct and keep an eye open for thieves and maybe five natives to do the real work of digging and shoveling the dirt into the buckets to be hoisted to the surface. Thirty-one feet square,” he said, almost with satisfaction, “hardly enough room to swing a pick or a shovel without hitting somebody in the head!”

Barney still could scarcely comprehend the confusion of the scene below. Who could do any decent work—digging, whatever—in that maelstrom? “But there has to be some sort of bloody organization, or you’d think there would be bloody anarchy—!”

“There is. Or as close to it as you might want,” Harry said quietly, and pointed. “There used to be roads running across the mine to carry the dirt out in wagons pulled by horses—those are the parts of the big hole you see that aren’t as deep as the rest of the mine. But they simply fell in when the diggers started to dig deeper on either side of them. Men, horses, they’ve all been killed falling in. They still get killed. Say one claim is fifty feet lower than the claim next to it. A man goes down his ladder to his claim and starts to dig, all aboveboard, all on his own claim.” He made a chopping motion with a hand. “Bam! First thing he knows his neighbor’s claim falls in on top of him. And then they get into a great argument—if either one of them is still alive—as to who has the right to the earth that fell in.” Harry grinned at his brother. “Still want to be a digger?”

“How do you go about getting a claim?”

“I’ll tell you later. Seen enough for a day?”

“Why? Where do you want to go?”

“Why,” Harry said lightly, almost as if he hadn’t been thinking about it for the past hour, “I imagine after two months on the trail, eating biltong and mealies, you could stand some rib-sticking food. One thing we have in Kimberley is good food. When and if you can afford it,” he added under his breath, and spoke up again. “What would you say to a broth to put the hair on your chest, a big juicy joint to add muscle to your elbows, two or three vegs—not mealies—to remind you of what we used to ramp off the wagons in Covent Garden when we were kids, and a bottle of real African beer?”

“I’d say it was what I could stand,” Barney said with a grin, and was about to turn away from the edge of the huge hole when a disturbance in the mine caught his attention. He looked down. A fight of some sort seemed to have broken out on a claim almost directly below them and no more than fifty or sixty feet from the surface. Two white men were pummeling a black unmercifully. The black had no place to go even had he been able to break loose; the sheer cliff of the reef prevented escape on one side, and below him the claims on that side contained men staring upward and he apparently felt he could look to small sympathy or help from them. With a sudden twist he broke free and dashed for the ladder on one side of the claim that led upward and eventually to the surface, but he had no more than started to climb when one of the men had him by the ankle and dragged him back. The black seemed to lose spirit at this defeat; he merely sat on the ground while the two men kicked and beat at him. At last he turned and spat. One of the white men ran his boot sole over the spittle and then bent to pick something from the ground. The black merely sat until the men dragged him to his feet and shoved him hard against the ladder. He stood there for a moment until one of the white men kicked him; then he dispiritedly began to climb. He came to the rim, pulled himself over within feet of Barney and Harry, and limped away, bleeding.

Barney had been staring in surprise. “What was that?”

“Someone trying to steal a diamond. Sometimes they stick right out of the soil, almost asking to be picked up.” Harry shrugged. “That one was lucky they didn’t beat him more. He’s lucky to walk away.”

Barney took a deep breath, remembering. It also brought back memories of Fay with her arms around him. He put that thought away. “We saw some men on horses kill a black near the river. They shot him. Andries—he was the driver of the ox wagon—said it was for stealing diamonds.”

“That’s the worst crime there is around here, stealing anything, but especially diamonds. Even trading in stolen diamonds is asking for a few years on the Cape Town breakwater,” Harry said. “But they rarely kill anyone for it. Those men you saw were probably from Klipdrift or Pniel or one of the other river diggings. Here they just beat them up—pretty bad—but they seldom kill them. If they’re white they get beat up and kicked out of town; word gets around and a man might as well go home. They won’t let him near the other mines, either. But very few get shot or killed. The Miner’s Committee doesn’t like guns; you don’t see anyone carrying them. This isn’t like America.”

They had been walking through the town; Barney now began to understand the deserted nature of the place when he had arrived. Everyone who didn’t have business in town was at the mine, working. Well, at least that meant somebody was making a living out of the diamonds, even if it wasn’t a very fancy one. It was an encouraging thought. Harry turned into the Queen’s Hotel, leading the way past the desk into a separate dining room. The Queen’s Hotel, Barney could see, was far better than the so-called hotel where Harry entertained and where he had gotten directions. Maybe Kimberley wasn’t as bad as his first impression of it had been. Well, whether it was or not, here he was and here he intended to stay.

The two men seated themselves at a table and waited until a matronly looking woman came to serve them. Harry did the ordering, quite as if he ate there every day, and once the beer had been brought and the woman had gone back into the kitchen, Harry leaned back and looked at his younger brother rather indulgently.

“Well, what do you want to know about diamonds?”

“Everything,” Barney said simply.

“You’ve come to the right man,” Harry said, and smiled. “I can tell you everything except how to make money in them.”

Barney smiled back. “And that’s the only part I’m interested in.”

Harry held up a hand. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I can tell you how others make money in them. I just can’t tell you how you can make money in them. Or me,” he added a bit more quietly.

“Tell me how the others do it,” Barney said, and then held up his hand. “Wait. First, explain something to me. How many diamond mines are there around here?”

“Outside of the river diggings, which really aren’t mines, there are four,” Harry said promptly. “Kimberley, De Beers, Bultfontein, and Dutoitspan.”

“How about the Colesberg Kopje, the New Rush, the Old Rush, and all of those?”

Harry laughed. “You’ll need a bit of history,” he said. “Diamonds have been found on three farms around here, besides the river diggings at places like Pniel and Klipdrift. The three farms are Bultfontein, Dutoitspan, and Vooruitzigt. We’re on what was the Vooruitzigt farm right now; both the Kimberley mine and the De Beers mine are on it. Now, they call the original De Beers mine the Old Rush, because that’s where people first went to try their luck at finding diamonds, the original rush for them, so to speak. Then one night, a Cape colored named Damon, who was servant to a man named Rawstorne, got drunk and became a nuisance, so Rawstorne sent him out of the camp to keep him from disturbing the others—Rawstorne and his pals were playing cards—and Damon settled himself down on the hillock to sober up. And woke up in the morning to find he’d had a restless night because the pebbles he thought he’d been sleeping on turned out to be diamonds. He went back and like a good and faithful servant told Rawstorne. And the New Rush was on. At first Rawstorne called the place Colesberg Kopje—a kopje is simply a hill and nothing else, and a hill in this part of the country is anything higher than a small boy—simply because Rawstorne and his friends had originally come from a place called Colesberg in the Cape. But after the town was renamed Kimberley after the new Colonial Secretary, and since the mine is the biggest of all four, they now call it the Kimberley mine. So Kimberley, Colesberg Kopje, and New Rush are one and the same mine. The mine you were looking down into a while ago. Any questions?”

“And how far is Bultfontein?” And Fay? he thought.

“A few miles, no more. Why?”

“Nothing,” Barney said shortly. “Go on about diamonds. You were going to tell me how other people make money in them.”

Harry was studying his younger brother with an odd look on his face. “You talk differently,” he said. “You don’t sound so Cockney—so East End. Who is she?”

Barney reddened. “Who is who?”

“The one who apparently had more influence on you than your family.”

“Go on about the diamonds,” Barney said.

“I only hope I’m invited to the wedding,” Harry said sententiously. “At least that way I’ll meet the miracle worker.”

“The diamonds!”

Harry took a deep draft of his beer, touched his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, quite as if it were a lace handkerchief, and then leaned back again; Harry had class, Barney had to admit that. “Right-o,” Harry said. “Well, there are three ways to make money in the diamond business. First, of course, is by digging them. You can rent a claim for a few shillings a month, so it’s the one way you can start if you don’t have much money. Of course, you have to hire Kaffirs unless you’re willing to do all the digging yourself, but even then the earth has to be crushed and sorted, and that’s the sort of work a man likes to do himself if he doesn’t want to be robbed blind. So you either need partners or enough money to hire labor. Labor’s cheap, but it isn’t exactly free. Still, it’s Cheap Street to get started, digging is, and while it’s hard work, sometimes you hit it big, find a real stone, and end up with some money. But usually you’re working for enough to put food on the table. And that’s when you can trust your partners, which is far from always being the case.”

He paused and looked around the dining room. Even though by now it was dark outside and work at the mines had stopped, there were very few people in the place taking advantage of the Queen’s Hotel’s excellent cuisine.

“Look around. The place is empty,” Harry said. “A few more in the bar but not many, I’d wager. Any you see are probably traders or commercial travelers in to sell to the shops. Although most of the traders are probably at the Kimberley Club, where the really important people in town get together. But the diggers?” He shrugged. “Having a plate of beans outside their tents, that is, if they’re lucky.”

Barney frowned. “But the diggers—the ones I saw down there in the mine today—don’t tell me they was workin’ for fun!”

“Just about,” Harry said. “Sure, there’s always the hope that the next shovel you turn over will bring up another Star of Africa; and sure, the ones with enough of a stake can hold on to their stones and hope for better prices before having to sell, but those diggers are few and far between. Most of them have to sell at almost any price just to pay their help and eat.” He shook his head decisively. “No, renting a claim and digging and crushing and sorting is the hard way to make money here in Kimberley. Besides, all the decent claims are taken, and to buy a claim from the man who has the license for it—a claim that is producing well—costs money. And with the price of diamonds where it is today, at least here at the mine, it isn’t worth it. Even if you had the money. And to buy or rent a claim that isn’t producing, of course, is simply stupid.”

“Which claims are producing?”

“The ones where they get diamonds,” Harry replied. In the interest of accuracy, however, he added, “Usually the claims nearer the center of the mine. I don’t know why, but the ones near the edge, near the reef, don’t seem to produce as well.”

Harry paused as the waitress placed a bowl of thick, rich soup before each of them. He sampled it, waited for Barney’s equal approval, almost as if he had had something to do with its creation, and then began to eat wolfishly. It was obvious to Barney that his brother had been on short rations for some time. It was not until Harry had finished, wiped his plate with a bit of bread for the last drops, that he went back to his exposition.

“The second way to make money in this business,” he said, “is to become what is called a ‘kopje walloper.’ That’s a man who goes from claim to claim—actually, from sorting pile to sorting pile, where ninety per cent of the diamonds are found—buying the day’s find from the miners, offering as little as he can for their stones, and then selling them for as much as he can to the diamond traders on Main Street, or High Street. The profit margin is small, of course; enough to make it worth while for the traders not to waste their time going from sorting pile to sorting pile, or for the miners to spend their time going to the traders, often with stones the big traders aren’t interested in. The kopje walloper is sort of an itinerant middle man; the poor man’s trader. Sort of an old man Feldman with his horse and wagon buying rags and glass and then reselling them to the bigger yards. But to become a kopje walloper takes capital. Not a great deal, but enough to pay for what you buy and to be able to buy what you want, because it’s a cash business, of course.”

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 small: 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.

“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?”

“Very philanthropic,” Harry said dryly, and laughed.

“Whatever, it’s a good idea,” Barney said stubbornly. “Comin’ back here tonight I stopped at all the hotels and bars and put the word out I got books to rent. And we can push ’em when we’re at the bar, tonight, give a pitch to the blokes lined up gettin’ beered.”

“I wasn’t going to the bar tonight,” Harry said slowly.

Barney frowned. “Why not?”

Harry looked down at his brother. It almost seemed that Barney was the older, and he the younger. There was almost something defensive in his answer, although he knew there was certainly no need for there to be.

“I went out and got a job today,” Harry said slowly. “A regular job. Starting tomorrow. At a trader’s.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Anything he tells me to do.”

Barney thought a moment and then suddenly grinned. “Good-o! You can learn all there is to know about diamonds, the good ’uns, the bad ’uns, the ones in between, what they’re worth, how the trader picks ’em and pays for ’em. Then, at night, you come back here and teach me.” He tugged at Harry’s leg; Harry sat down beside him. Barney slapped his brother on the shoulder. “We’re goin’ to be rich, Harry! We’re goin’ to be rich yet! Because I got lots of ideas! I told you about comin’ up with the idea of lettin’ the books while I was cullin’ dirt today, didn’t I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I thought of somethin’ else, too.”

“What was that?”

Barney seemed to simmer down. “I want to try it before I tell you, just to see if it works.” He brightened. “Now, let’s eat them mealies, because afterward we’re goin’ down to that Paris Hotel and put on the best act the Barnato Brothers ever have!”

Harry frowned. “It doesn’t seem right for someone working at a trader’s to be—well, putting on a show—”

“What? We ain’t goin’ to rob the place! There’s nothin’ wrong with it! And we need every penny we can get our meat-grabbers on! We ain’t spendin’ a bloody penny we don’t need to! We need capital and we’re goin’ to get it! And also,” he added more quietly, more under control, “we’re goin’ to put on a show there because you said they give you a sandwich for the act, besides what you pick up on the side from the blokes around the bar.” He suddenly grinned. “Maybe for the famous Barnato Brothers, both of them in person, they’ll hand out a full bloody meal!”

Harry glanced at his brother in silence. He almost didn’t recognize the dynamo his younger brother seemed to have become. Oh, sure, Barney had always been the most ambitious and hardworking in the family, but nothing like this. A suspicion came to Harry. The more he thought about it the less of a suspicion and the more of a certainty it became. And if he were right, maybe something could be done about Barney’s horrible English. It was amazing that a boy who worshiped the theater and the words of Shakespeare could mangle the language whenever he became excited or started to quote his favorite actors or playwrights.

“Who is she?” Harry asked innocently.

“Who is who?”

“The girl you suddenly want to get rich for.”

Barney felt his face getting red. “You’re goin’ off your chump, Harry!”

“I hope not,” Harry said, “because I have a feeling it’s the same girl who almost had you speaking English there for a while. And if it is, and you know where she is and how to get in touch with her, I think it’s time she gave you some more lessons.”

“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you none to mind your own business!”

“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you any to look her up,” Harry said, and reached into the pot to bring out the already overcooked mealies.

And maybe Harry’s right, Barney thought. Only I can’t go see her until I’ve got somethin’ to show her. And Harry is also right; it wouldn’t do no harm to let Fay help me with me English—I mean, any harm to let Fay help me with my English. Of course, Harry could help just as well, but, well—

The first thing in the morning, Barney Isaacs put into practice the idea he had developed the day before, sitting culling the dirt in Jerry Weston’s sorting shed. He hung around the sorting yard until a kopje walloper appeared with his little box and leather belt, a different one from the small ferret-faced man of the day before. This one sported a horse and cart: a horse that had obviously seen better days and ambled down the road as if his mind was on distant prairies and better years and a youth far enough back to precede diamonds and anything else on the high plateau; and a cart whose life-span had already been spent. Barney watched the man manage to buy a few stones from Jerry, after which he followed the ambling horse and his kopje walloper owner on his rounds the entire morning, making sure he remained inconspicuous. At noon he abandoned the man and his sad, spavined horse, and tried to benefit from what he had learned. That evening, as he sat down to his evening meal around the fire, he explained his ploy to Harry.

“The blokes what deal with them kopje wallopers,” he said, “are blokes what usually need the money pretty bad. So they’re blokes what cull their dirt with a fine-tooth comb. They don’t let nothin’ by, see—they can’t afford to.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “But the blokes what send the kopje wallopers packin’ without wastin’ time on them, the ones what deal with the big traders like your boss—they’re lookin’ for bigger stones. They don’t work the earth so fine. I stood and watched a few of them. There was a Canadian I talked to, seemed like a decent bloke. Said I could work his fines for five shillin’.”

“What kind of a business was that?” Harry said, and sneered. “You’d have to come up with over a carat to break even!”

Barney reached into his pocket and brought out some silver. He tossed it on the ground before his brother. “Twenty shillin’,” he said quietly. “One quid even. For five shillin’ in front and four hours’ work. And I got the same deal tomorrow, but all day.”

“Tomorrow your Canadian will cull a lot closer, I can promise you that,” Harry said.

Barney grinned. “And so will I.” He looked up at a strange face that had come to stand before him, staring down at him. “Yes?”

“They say you have books to let.”

“A penny a day.” Barney brought out a ruled sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it up to the man with the stub of a pencil. “The books are inside on a box. Take your pick. One book at a time. Then put down your name and the name of the book.” He looked up warningly. “And be careful! They’re a quid each you lose one of them, or ruin it, or don’t bring it back.”

“Right.” The man went into the tent and came out in a few minutes with a book. He wrote on the sheet, “Thos. Williams, Faerie Queene, Spenser.”

“That’s a hard ’un,” Barney said. “Wrote funny. Don’t understand it meself. But I picked it up on the cheap, thought it was somethin’ else.” He watched the man walk off and winked at his brother. “We’re in business, like I said. Now, teach me everythin’ you learned at the trader’s shop today…”

Bless the girl, whoever she is! Harry thought, and began to explain to Barney what a Very Slight Imperfection was.