Free Banco: The Further Adventures of Papillon by Henri Charrière Page B

holes in them. You pump the mud into it, and a team of seven men can wash fifty times more earth than a dozen working the old-fashioned way. And it’s still not looked upon as machinery. Then as the owner of the pump I get twenty-five percent of the diamonds; and what’s more, I have a reason for being here. No one can say I live off gambling, because I live off my pump. But since I’m a gambler as well , I don’t stop gambling at night. That’s natural, because I don’t take part in the actual work. You get it?”
    “It’s as clear as gin.”
    “There’s a bright boy. Two frescos , Señora.”
    A fat, friendly old light-skinned woman brought us glasses full of chocolate-colored liquid with an ice cube and a bit of lemon swimming in it.
    “That’ll be eight bolivars, hombres .”
    “More than two dollars! Hell, life is not cheap here.”
    Jojo paid. “How are things going?” he asked.
    “So-so.”
    “Is there any loot or not?”
    “Men in plenty. But very, very few diamonds. They found this place three months ago, and since then four thousand men have come rushing in. Too may men for so few diamonds. And what about him?” she said, jerking her chin toward me. “German or French?”
    “French. He’s with me.”
    “Poor soul.”
    “How come, poor soul?” I asked.
    “Because you’re too young and too good-looking to die. The men who come with Jojo never have any luck.”
    “You shut your trap, you old fool. Come on, Papi, let’s go.”
    As we stood up, the fat woman said to me by way of good-bye, “Look out for yourself.”
    Of course, I’d said nothing about what José had told me, and Jojo was amazed that I did not try to find out what there was behind her words. I could feel him waiting for the questions that didn’t come. He seemed upset and he kept glancing at me sideways.
    Pretty soon, after he had talked to various people, Jojo found a shack. Three small rooms; rings to hang our hammocks; and some cartons. On one of them, empty beer and rum bottles; on another, a battered enamel bowl and a full watering can. Strings stretched across to hang up our clothes. The floor was pounded earth, very clean. The walls of this hutch were made of planks from packing cases--you could still read Savon Camay, Aceite Branca, Nestlé’s Milk. Each room was about ten feet by ten. No windows. I felt stifled and took off my shirt.
    Jojo turned, deeply shocked. “Are you crazy? Suppose somebody came in? You’ve got a wicked face already, and now if you go and show your tattooed hide, man, it’s as if you were advertising the fact that you’re a crook. Behave yourself.”
    “But I’m stifling, Jojo.”
    “You’ll get used to it--it’s all a matter of habit. But behave yourself, almighty God: above all, behave yourself.”
    I managed to keep myself from laughing: he was a priceless old fart, that Jojo.
    We knocked two rooms into one. “This will be the casino,” said Jojo, with a grin. It made a room twenty feet by ten. We swept the floor, went Out to buy three big wooden crates, some rum and paper cups to drink out of. I was eager to see what the game would be like.
    I didn’t have to wait long. Once we had been around a number of wretched little drinking joints, to “make contact,” as Jojo put it, everyone knew that there would be a game of craps in our place at eight that evening. The last joint we went to was a shed with a couple of tables outside, four benches and a carbide lamp hanging from a covering of branches. The boss, a huge, ageless redhead, served the punch without a word. As we were leaving he came over to me and, speaking French, he said, “I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know. But I’ll just give you this tip. The day you feel like sleeping here, come along. I’ll look after you.”
    He spoke an odd sort of French, but from his accent I realized he was a Corsican. “You a Corsican?”
    “Yes. And you know a Corsican never betrays. Not like some guys from the