Men of Men Read Online Free

canteens and from the parked wagons men came running to find the cause of the excitement.
    ‘What happened?’ the question was yelled.
    ‘Black Thomas pulled a monkey,’ the reply was hurled back.
    It was only later that Zouga learned the diggers’ parlance. A ‘monkey’ was a diamond of fifty carats or more, while a ‘pony’ was that impossible diggers’
dream, a stone of one hundred carats.
    ‘Black Thomas pulled a
monkey
.’ The reply was picked up and called across the square and through the encampment, and soon the crowd overflowed the rickety canteen so that
the frothing schooners of beer had to be passed overhead to the men on the fringes.
    The fortunate Black Thomas was hidden from Zouga’s view in the crowd that pressed about him, everybody trying to draw close as though some of the man’s luck might rub off onto
them.
    The kopje-wallopers heard the excitement, hastily lowered their flags and hurried across the square, gathering like carrion birds to the lion’s kill. The first of them arrived breathless
on the fringe of the revellers, hopping up and down for a glimpse of the man.
    ‘Tell Black Thomas that Lion-heart Werner will make an open offer – pass it on to him.’
    ‘Hey, Blackie, Lion-arse will go open.’ The offer changed shape as it was yelled through the packed doorway. An ‘open offer’ was firm and the digger was free to tout the
other buyers. If he received no higher bid for his diamond, he was entitled to return and close with the open offer.
    Once again Black Thomas was raised by his fellows until he could see over their heads. He was a little gypsy-dark Welshman and his moustache was rimed with beer froth. His voice had the sweet
Welsh lilt as he sang his defiance:
    ‘Hear me, then. Lion-arse the robber, I would sooner—’ what he proposed to do with his diamond made even the rough men about him blink and then guffaw with surprise ‘
– rather than let you get your thieving paws on it.’
    His voice rang with the memory of a hundred humiliations and unfair bargains that had been forced upon him. Today Black Thomas with his ‘monkey’ was king of the diggings, and though
his reign might be short, he was determined to reap all the sweets that it promised.
    Zouga never laid eyes on that stone; he never saw Black Thomas again; for by noon the following day the little Welshman had sold his diamond, and sold too his ‘briefies’, and taken
the long road south on the beginning of his journey home to a fairer, greener land.
    Zouga waited in the press of hot sweat-stinking bodies that filled the canteen, choosing a man with care while he listened to the voices grow louder and the chaff coarser as the schooners went
down.
    He selected one who by his comportment and speech was a gentleman, and home-bred rather than colonial born. The man was drinking whisky, and when his glass was empty Zouga moved closer and
ordered it refilled.
    ‘Very decent of you, old man,’ the man thanked him. He was in his twenties still and remarkably good-looking, with fair English skin and silky sideburns. ‘The name is
Pickering, Neville Pickering,’ he said.
    ‘Ballantyne – Zouga Ballantyne.’ Zouga took the proffered hand and the man’s expression altered.
    ‘Good Lord, you are the elephant hunter.’ Pickering raised his voice. ‘I say, fellows, this is Zouga Ballantyne. You know, the one who wrote
Hunter’s
Odyssey
.’
    Zouga doubted half of them could read, but the fact that he had written a book made him an object of wonder. He found the centre of interest had shifted from Black Thomas to himself.
    It was after dark when he started back to the wagon. He had always had a strong head for liquor and there was a good moon, so he could pick his way through the ordure that littered the
track.
    He had spent a few sovereigns on liquor, but in return he had learned a great deal about the diggings. He had learned of the diggers’ expectations and fears. He knew now the going