I'm a worried man. You look well enough on it, Sean prodded his

stomach. You've put on weight! You can joke, Mr Courtney, but I'm

telling you it's terrible. Taxes and worry, taxes and worry. Mr

Goldberg sighed, and now there's talk of war. What's this? Sean

frowned. War, Mr Courtney, war between Britain and the Republic. Sean's

frown dissolved and he laughed. Nonsense, man, not even Kruger could be

such a bloody fool! Get me a cup of coffee and a cigar and we'll go

through to your office and talk business. Mr Goldberg's face went blank

and his eyelids drooped almost sleepily. Business, Mr Courtney? That's

right, Izzy, this time I'm selling and you're buying. What are you

selling, Mr Courtney? Ivory. Ivory? ? lTwelve wagon loads of it Mr

Goldberg sighed sadly. Ivory's no good now, the bottom's fallen out of

it. You can hardly give it away. It was very well done; if Sean had

not been told the ruling prices two days before he might have been

convinced. I'm sorry to hear that, he said. If you're not interested,

I'll see if I can find someone else. Come along to my office anyway,

said Mr Goldberg. We can talk about it. Talk costs nothing. Two days

later they were still talking about it. Sean had fetched his wagons and

had off-loaded the ivory in the back yard of the store. Mr Goldberg had

personally weighed each tusk and written the weights down on a sheet of

paper. He and Sean had added the columns of figures and agreed on the

total. Now they were in the last stages of agreeing the price. Come

on, Izzy, we've wasted two days already. That's a fair price and you

know it . . . let's get it over with, Sean growled. I'll lose money

on this, protested Mr Goldberg. I've got to make a living, every man's

got to live. Come on, Sean held out his right hand. Let's call it a

deal. Mr Goldberg hesitated a second longer, then he put his pudgy hand

In Sean's fist and they grinned at each other, both well satisfied. One

of Mr Goldberg's assistants counted out the sovereigns, stacking them in

piles of fifty along the counter, then Sean and Mr Goldberg checked them

and agreed once more. Sean filled two canvas bags with the gold, slapped

Mr Goldberg's back, helped himself to another cigar and headed heavily

laden for the bank. When are you going into the veld again? Mr

Goldberg called after him.

Soon! said Sean.

Don't forget to get your supplies here. I'll be back, Sean assured him.

Mbejane carried one of the bags and Sean the other.

Sean was smiling and streamers of cigar smoke swirled back from his head

as he strode along the sidewalk.

There's something in the weight of a sack of gold that makes the man who

holds it stand eight feet tall.

That night as they lay together in the darkness of the wagon Katrina

asked him. Have we enough money to buy the farm yet, Sean? Yes, said

Sean. We've got enough for the finest farm in the whole Cape

peninsular. . . and, after one more trip, we'll have enough to build

the house and the barns, buy the cattle, lay out the vineyard and still

have some left over. Katrina was silent for a moment then, So we are

going back into the bushveld again? One more trip, said Sean. Another

two years and then we'll go down to the Cape. He gave her a hug. You

don't mind, do you? No, she said. I think I'd like that. When will we

leave? Not just yet awhile, Sean laughed. First we're going to have

some fun. He hugged her again, her body was still painfully thin; he

could feel the bones of her hips pressed against him. Some pretty

clothes for you, my fancy, and a suit for me that doesn't look like a

fancy dress. Then we'll go out and see what this burg has to offer in

the way of entertainment, He stopped as the idea swelled up in his mind.

Damn it! I know what we'll do. We'll hire a carriage and go across to

Johannesburg. We'll take a suite at the Grand National Hotel and do

some living. Bath in a china bath, sleep in a real bed; you can have

your hair prettiedup and I'll have my beard trimmed by a barber. We'll

eat crayfish and penguin eggs. . . I can't remember when I last tasted

pork or mutton. . . we'll wash it down with the old bubbling wine and

waltz to a good band - Sean raced on and when he stopped for breath

Katrina asked softly, Isn't the waltz a very sinful dance, Sean?

Sean smiled in the darkness. It certainly is! I'd like to be sinful

just once, -, not too much, just a little with you to see what it's

like. We will be, said Sean as wicked as hell The next day Sean took

Katrina to the most exclusive ladies shop in Pretoria. He chose the

material of half a dozen dresses. One of them was to be a ball gown in

canary-yellow silk. It was extravagance and he knew it, but he didn't

care once he saw the flash of guilty delight in Katrina's cheeks and the

old green sparkle in her eyes.

For the first time since the fever she was living again.

He spilled out his sovereigns with thankful abandon. The sales girls

were delighted with him, they crowded round him with trays of feminine

accessories. A dozen of those, said Sean and, yes, those will do. Then

a flash of green on the racks across the room caught his eye, it was

Katrina's green.

What's that? He pointed and two sales girls nearly knocked each other

down in the rush to get it for him.

The winner carried the shawl back to him and Sean took it and placed it

around Katrina's shoulders. It was a beautiful thing.

We'll take it, said Sean and Katrina's lips quivered then suddenly she

was crying, sobbing brokenly. The excitement had been too much. There

was immediate consternation among the shop assistants, they flapped

around Sean like hens at feeding time while he picked Katrina up and

carried her out to the hired carriage. At the door he paused and spoke

over his shoulder.