“But you leased it, and the lease does not expire until next November. The improvements belong to the man who leased the land and put them on it.” “The lease expired a month ago.” “That is false!” Ben’s indignation was so great that he could hardly speak. “Mr. Madge told us that the lease ran for thirty-five years, and commenced in November, 1866!” “That was the date on which the building was commenced; the lease dated from four months earlier.” Ben turned to Mundon sick at heart. “Can’t you remember what he said when I filled in the dates?” “He said the first pile for the buildin’ was drove in November, 1866; but he meant fur us to think that were the date of the lease, too. ’Pears like we’ve ben taken in, Ben.” “The building belongs to me and the rubbish that’s here. I’ve paid for it fairly and squarely, and it’s only right that I should be allowed to work here until November. I bought the right to do it.” “We’re not talking about any rights now, young man, except those the law allows,” the owner remarked with a dryness that was irritating. “You can’t trespass on another man’s property to work anything.” He turned to Mundon, who was bending over the “jigger.” “Stop that! That’s mine!” he cried. Mundon straightened himself. In his hand he held a wide-mouthed bottle partly filled with amalgam. “No, it ain’t,” he replied. “It b’longs to this young man. He’d just about finished with his day’s work when you came in,--and it b’longs to him.” “I’ve got the law on my side. He can’t take anything off this property--my property--_now_.” “Well then,” responded Mundon, setting the bottle on the floor of the “jigger,” “neither kin you. If you touch this stuff before this thing’s settled, I’ll have the law on you.” The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then Mundon drew Ben aside. “’Tain’t no use talkin’ to him. I know him--his name’s Fish and he’s a reg’lar old shark. Rich as anythin’--owns piles of tenements and grinds his tenants down ter their marrer bones. I saw him nosin’ ’round here on the day we made our first clean-up. The question is, What are you goin’ to do?” “O, I don’t know!” Ben cried in despair. The two strangers were leisurely surveying the arastra and its contents. “Know any lawyer?” Mundon asked. “No.” A recollection of Mr. Hale, who had been in the Collector’s office on the day of his visit, flashed before him. He believed him to be the great lawyer of whom he had heard. He had appeared interested in the venture, if skeptical; and since then the scheme had proved a success. Ben was thinking very hard. “’Cause if you do,” Mundon continued, “he might find some hole fur us to crawl out of.” This view of the situation was humiliating, but Ben was forced to accept it.