terest,
which, though in the ordinary sense it would not be considered stable
and though it has subjected him to a dramatic series of ups and downs,
nevertheless adds up to continuity of a sort. Except for these ups and
downs of finance, Sir Ernest has not had a checkered career. The
variety of his life was not geographical or vocational: not for him the
pattern of cow-punching, or bartending, or elevator operating, or
windjammer sailing that we usually think of when we hear of men who
have made their fortunes out of mining in the colonies. Sir Ernest went
into the diamond trade when he was sixteen, and he's been in diamonds
ever since, though admittedly he has been in a lot of other things as
well. His circle is largely made up of people he has known for many
years, who have known each other, too, all that time. One of these men
was in a reminiscent mood the other day, rendered thoughtful, as
septuagenarians are, by his old friend's birthday.
"I
recall the day I first saw Ernest," he said. "It was in the sorting
room where he was working in Kimberley. He had just got to town and I
noticed him immediately; it was a little place and you always did look
twice at strangers in those days. It was 1902, a warm summer day. His
sleeves were rolled up, and I noticed his arms immediately. I thought
I'd never seen such muscular arms on any man. Ernest's still immensely
strong, though you mightn't think it because he seems to be lightly
built. Harry Oppenheimer's the same; they're short and slight but
sinewy. Well, I asked the man in charge of the office, 'Who's that
fellow with the big arms?' and he said it was a new man, Ernest
Oppenheimer, who'd just been sent out from London. He said, 'I don't
think very much of him from what I've seen so far. He's terribly shy,
and he doesn't seem to be
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