Ben’s suspicions were aroused. “He wants to drive some bargain with me about that opium business,” he thought. “O, I’ll sell it for lumber to some builder, I guess,” he indifferently replied. “Not worth very much.” “No; not very much.” “I notice you have plenty of room here; so I think perhaps you like to rent this place to me to store my goods.” He darted one of his capacious sleeves inside his blouse and drew forth a card, which he handed to Ben. “I give you my card.” Ben glanced at the card. “_Ng Quong Lee, Fruitpacker; Factory, 792 Jackson Street_,” it read. “I shall be here for only a short time,” Ben said. “The lease of this building expires in a few months. Besides, you couldn’t store anything here; there are too many holes in the walls and roofs.” “O, that wouldn’t matter,--my goods are canned. My factory too crowded at this time of year. Fruit season now, you know. For a few months I like to rent another place.” “I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you,” Ben said, turning away, “but I need all the place myself.” “I give you thirty dollars a month,” the Chinese said, with a shrewd glance. This offer increased Ben’s suspicion, and he flatly refused to consider it. “You make too much money,” the other said in conclusion. “You too rich, I think. Well, I leave my card. Perhaps some time you come to see me. Some time,” he looked Ben squarely in the face, “if Mr. Fish make you trouble, you come to see me.” With which enigmatical remark he politely bowed and took his departure. “I wonder what he was after and what he meant by that last?” Ben reflected, when he had fastened the gates after his strange visitor. “There’s something wrong about it, or he wouldn’t offer me thirty dollars a month for a part of this crazy old shed. He’ll wait a long time, I’m thinking, before he receives a call from me.” After thinking the matter over, Ben concluded not to mention it to Mundon. He was afraid he might urge him to accept it, and this he did not wish to do. CHAPTER X WORK STOPPED The next morning Ben saw a picture of himself above the title “Our Boy Miner,” in one of the daily papers. He felt the sensationalism of it, but he could not deny that it pleased him. “Publicity was the penalty one had to pay for being prominent,” he told himself. And the thought pulled him very erect, like a balloon tugging at his neckband. He was elated with success. All doubts which he had previously felt about speculation being a hazardous way of making money vanished like mists before the sun. The warnings he had heard all his life from the wiseacres about the slow way being the sure way he now felt to be all nonsense. Indeed, so egotistical is success, that he even wondered that he could ever have felt any doubts. [Illustration: Photo by Arnold Genthe. “_Our Boy Miner._”]