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 .
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