About
ten feet away on a trampled little knoll stood a four-legged
contraption where two more natives were working, shaking a big
rectangular sieve that fitted on the legs like a loose tabletop. This
was one of the famous "Baby" machines that used to be an important part
of a digger's outfit in earlier days. It was invented by an American
engineer named J. L. Babe, but it might have wound up with the name
Baby anyway: it took the place of the old-fashioned cradle in which
miners washed their earth when they did placer mining in California as
well as South Africa. One of the old, mildly smutty jokes of the
digging profession is of the angry woman who was told by her husband's
companions that he couldn't meet her when she arrived; he was too busy
making a Baby.
On
another knoll a European was overseeing a process in which another
native stooped down by a rotating affair like a giant saucepan, full of
thickly dirty, swirling water. This was the wash, which by gravity and
centrifugal force sends the heavy gravel to the bottom outside edge,
with whatever diamonds might be among the pebbles. The native was
tapping the concentrate there at the bottom, letting it slide out into
a shallow sieve, through which the water drained off.
Mr.
Van der Westhuizen introduced me to the European, who was named Mr.
Bishop, an elderly man who wore a khaki topee. The only men I ever saw
in topees, anywhere in Africa, were these diggers who had to work in
the glare of the veld. Mr. Bishop looked very healthy, as sunburned
people usually do, and his blue eyes were clear.
"The lady would like to see you do some sorting. Is your wash ready?" asked Mr. Van der Westhuizen.
Mr. Bishop said it was ready and he was just on the verge
