“It depends on circumstances. Generally, yes. I’ve got samples here,” the banker went on quickly, pulling out a drawer beside him.
He lifted out a leather case and flung it open. It held a number of small glass bottles each containing a sample of yellow dust. Each bottle was carefully labelled.
“We keep these as a matter of interest. They’re small samples of each different strike made in the neighbourhood with which we trade. You see? Examine them. Compare them. There’s many differ shades.”
He sat back again while the oil man picked up each bottle in turn and compared them one with the other, and the banker found it profoundly interesting to note the intensity of scrutiny to which the man whose interests had nothing to do with gold examined them.
“Do you realise the varying shades?”
McLagan was holding one bottle, searching its contents closely.
“This is pale sort of stuff,” he said.
The banker looked at the label.
“Reef gold from the Ubishi Hills. It was a poor strike and petered out. Crystal quartz. And too hard to work for the ordinary gold man. It needed big capital.”
McLagan nodded.