Benito, eyes upraised to view the labors of a bustling human hive, almost collided with two gentlemen, who were strolling westward, arm in arm. He apologized. They roared endearing curses at him and insisted that he join them in a drink.
They were J.C. Flood and W.S. O'Brien, former saloon proprietors now reputed multi-millionaires.
Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, a blaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G. Fair. Between them they bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine, paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares. Mining experts smiled good naturedly, forgot the matter. Then the world was brought upstanding by the news of a bonanza hitherto unrivaled.
Con. Virginia had gained a value of $150,000,000.
After he had sipped the French champagne, on which Flood insisted and which Windham disliked, the latter spoke of Ralston and his trouble with the editors. "Some of the newspapers would have us think he's playing recklessly, with other people's money," he said with irritation.
'"Well, well, and maybe he is, me b'y," returned O'Brien. "Don't blame the newspaper fellahs.... They've raison to be suspicious, Hiven knows.... Ralston's a prince. We all love the man. It's not that. But--," he came closer, caught both of Benito's coat lapels in a confidential grasp, "I'm tellin' ye this, me lad: If it should come to a show-down ... if certain enemies should have a chance to call Bill Ralston's hand, I tell ye, it would mean dee-saster!"
At 9 o'clock on the morning of August 25, Francisco Stanley entered the private door of Windham's office. He was now an under-editor on The Chronicle, which had developed from the old Dramatic Chronicle, into a daily newspaper. Benito glanced up from his desk a bit impatiently; it was a busy day.
"What's the matter, Francisco? You're excited."
"I've a right to be," the journalist spoke sharply. He glanced at his uncle's secretary. "I must see you alone."