"There
are two ways he can make an offer," Mr. Van der Westhuizen explained
over the teacups. "He sometimes gives a price they can take up right
away or later on as they like. Or he makes a different kind of
proposition, when he isn't so sure how he can dispose of the
stone himself; they can turn it down and go out and hawk it around the
other dealers, but if they do that and then come back, his price won't
be as good as it was at first."
Mr.
Cohen unlocked the door of his own cubicle and got it ready. I looked
out the window at the diggers who had assembled before the shack. I
wouldn't have guessed from my view the day before that there were so
many people on the farm, vast as it was. Then I had seen only four or
five houses all morning, but there were twenty or thirty people
talking to each other in the shade of the big tree or leaning against
the wall. Most of them were colored. All of them looked ready for hard
work, some in ragged clothes; the general effect was a parched one, as
if they would have been muddy if ever they could get wet, but that
wasn't likely. There was one woman, a wide, low one in an old black
felt hat and a skirt of indeterminate color and a brown sweater full of
holes, buttoned to straining tightness over her big bust. Her skin was
light brown, her hair was gray, and when she saw me looking at her, her
smile was shy and sweet.
We
went in to Mr. Cohen's room, which held nothing but a table, two
chairs, and a pair of diamond scales. He unlocked his case and
disclosed a lot of money—notes neatly stacked together with rubber
bands around them, and rouleaux of coins in paper, like those at a
bank. He sat down behind the table and put on a pair of jeweler's
goggles. The diggers lined up at
