It seemed impossible to explain about the stones to Maud Johnson. He could not bear the idea of her hearing his account of Paul's opals before George, Watty, and the rest of the men who were his mates, had.
"Well to be you, having stuff like that to noodle," Maud said. "Doin' a bit of dealin' myself. I'll give you a good price for it, Michael."
"It's goin' into a parcel," he replied.
"Oh, well, when you want to sell, you might let me know," Maud said. "Comin', Potch?"
She swung away with the light, graceful swirl of a dancer. Michael caught the smile in her eyes, mischievous and mocking as a street urchin's, as she turned to Potch, and Potch followed her out of the hut.
CHAPTER II
Days and months went by, hot and still, with dust-storms and blue skies, fading to grey. Their happenings were so alike that there was scarcely any remembering one from the other of them. The twilights and dawns were clear, with delicate green skies. On still nights the moon rose golden, flushing the sky before it appeared, as though there were fires beyond the Ridge.
Usually in one of the huts a concertina was pulled lazily, and its wheezing melodies drifted through the quiet air. Everybody missed Sophie's singing. The summer evenings were long and empty without the ripple of her laughter and the music of the songs she sang.
"You miss her these nights, don't you?" Michael said to Potch one very hot, still night, when the smoke of a mosquito fire in the doorway was drifting into the room about them.