"Come in and have a drink," James Lick invited.
Lick had "made a pile" of late. He was building a big hotel on
Montgomery street; was recognized as one of San Francisco's financiers.
He took Benito by the arm. "We've got to celebrate. I've made ten
thousand on my Ophir shares. Carrying any mining stock, Benito?"
"No," retorted Windham. He suffered Lick to lead him to the bar. Will
O'Brien, a shrewd-faced merry Irishman, took their orders. He and Flood
had bought an interest in Virginia City ... "a few fate only, but it's
goin' t' make us rich, me lad," he said enthusiastically as he set their
glasses out upon the bar. "We'll all be nabobs soon. Ain't that the
God's truth, Mr. Ralston?"
"Sure, my boy," a deep voice answered heartily. Windham turned and saw a
man of forty, tall, well-molded, with a smiling forceful countenance. He
seemed to smack of large affairs.
Benito sipped his liquor, listening absorbedly while Ralston rattled off
facts, figures, prospects in connection with the Comstock lode.
"The Nevada mines will pay big," Benito heard him tell a group of
bearded men who hung upon his utterances. "BIG! You can bet your bottom
dollar on it.
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