“That was the date on which the building was commenced; the lease dated from four months earlier.”
Ben turned to Mundon sick at heart. “Can’t you remember what he said when I filled in the dates?”
“He said the first pile for the buildin’ was drove in November, 1866; but he meant fur us to think that were the date of the lease, too. ’Pears like we’ve ben taken in, Ben.”
“The building belongs to me and the rubbish that’s here. I’ve paid for it fairly and squarely, and it’s only right that I should be allowed to work here until November. I bought the right to do it.”
“We’re not talking about any rights now, young man, except those the law allows,” the owner remarked with a dryness that was irritating. “You can’t trespass on another man’s property to work anything.” He turned to Mundon, who was bending over the “jigger.” “Stop that! That’s mine!” he cried.
Mundon straightened himself. In his hand he held a wide-mouthed bottle partly filled with amalgam.
“No, it ain’t,” he replied. “It b’longs to this young man. He’d just about finished with his day’s work when you came in,—and it b’longs to him.”
“I’ve got the law on my side. He can’t take anything off this property—my property—now.”
“Well then,” responded Mundon, setting the bottle on the floor of the “jigger,” “neither kin you. If you touch this stuff before this thing’s settled, I’ll have the law on you.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment.