"Charley Elleard ran him off, I think," said Frank Ward, laughing. "He'd have voted Chinamen and Indians if he'd had his way. But if you're looking for the rascal try the gambling house at Long Wharf and Montgomery street; that's where his kind hang out." Later in the spring of 1850 Montgomery street was graded. Now it was a sloping streak of mud, the western side of which was several feet above the other. Where Long Wharf, which was to be cut through and called Commercial street, intersected, or rather bisected Montgomery, stood a large building with a high, broad roof. Its eaves projected over a row of benches, and here, sheltered somewhat from the rain, a group of Mexicans and Chilenos lounged in picturesque native costumes, smoking cigarettes. Through the door came a rollicking melody--sailor tunes played by skillful performers--and a hum of converse punctuated by the click of chips and coin. Benito entered. The room was blue with cigarette smoke, its score of tables glimpsed as through a fog. Sawdust covered the floor and men of all nationalities mingled quietly enough at play of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming boards and bar. Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man he sought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender. If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him, stranger?" An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He bent toward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," he whispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly." CHAPTER XXIX THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye to 'im," he volunteered. But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said emphatically. The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered, sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What's it all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me an inklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business." Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture. "Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so bloody sly about it. Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. But you can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up in Sydney Town." They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant, ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck," had told him.