The watch was continued for several nights, but in vain. As none came to claim the opium, it was taken away and a valuation of two thousand dollars was placed upon it, of which Ben’s share amounted to nearly seven hundred dollars.
It did not seem possible that those little boxes, filled with a sticky substance which looked like very black and thick molasses, could be worth so much. The readiness with which a broker advanced Ben the money due on his claim, however, was tangible evidence, and he found no fault with the exorbitant rate of interest exacted.
There was one phase of the affair that was most unpleasant to Ben,—the suspicion with which the Government officials regarded Mundon and himself.
“Some one blabbed,” one of them pointedly said to him, “or else the parties who stowed that stuff away would have come back for it.”
Another time he overheard one man remark to another, “I don’t agree with you. I think the boy’s honest enough; but that fellow with him looks like a slippery one.”
“But the boy’s the one who gets the reward.”
“I know. But that fellow’ll get it out of him before he’s through with him.”
A thought that this might be true came into Ben’s mind, but he dismissed it at once as unworthy. Yet it is hard to get rid of a vicious weed, and this doubt presented itself to him from time to time.
Mundon proved more useful to Ben as time went on and his own ignorance and inexperience became more marked. He congratulated himself many times upon the good luck which had sent this man across his path.