"Right," Potch replied.
He went out of the hut to bring the opal from his own room.
"Reck'n it's the finest stone ever found on this field," Watty said, "and the biggest. How much did you say Potch had turned down for it, Michael?"
"Four hundred," Michael said.
"What are you hangin' on to her for, Michael?" Pony-Fence asked.
Michael shook his head, that faint smile of his flickering.
"Potch's had an idea he didn't want to part with her," he said. "But I daresay he'll be letting her go soon."
He did not say "now." But the men understood that. They guessed that Potch had been waiting for this moment; that he wanted to show Sophie the stone before selling it.
Potch came into the room again, his head back, an indefinable triumph and elation in his eyes as they sought Sophie's. He had a mustard tin, skinned of its gaudy paper covering, in his hand. A religious awe and emotion stirred the men as, standing beside Sophie, he put the tin on the table. They crowded about the table, muscles tightening in sun-red, weather-tanned faces, some of them as dark as the bronze of an old penny, the light in their eyes brightening, sharpening—a thirsting, eager expression in every face. Potch screwed off the lid of the tin, lifted the stone in its wrappings, and unrolled the dingy flannel which he had put round it. Then he took the opal from its bed of cotton wool.
Sophie leaned forward, her eyes shining, her breath coming quickly. The emotion in the room made itself felt through her.