Ben went straight from the lawyer’s office to Mundon. The latter was looking more disconsolate than ever. Even the mule seemed to have caught his state of abject misery. “I’ve just ben thinkin’ how I could get out of this old town,” Mundon said. “If I could manage to get to Cripple Creek, I’d be able to get on my feet again.” Ben did not reply, and Mundon glanced at his face. “Why, Ben, you look as you’d heard some good news.” “So I have, partner, mighty good news. Wo-o-w!” He flung his cap above their heads. “We’re going to beat that muckery pair, Fish and Madge, sure’s you’re born!” “Either you’ve gone plumb crazy, Ben, or else-- Tell me ’bout it, boy! How’d you down ’em?” During the recital of the story, Mundon gave Ben a keen glance when he came to the part relating to Ng Quong. It was an awkward moment for both; and Ben regretted his silence at the time the incident occurred. “You forgot to mention the Chinaman’s visit at the time,” Mundon remarked. “But time’ll tell, Ben, and I ain’t never ben afraid of time.” On the day following the investigation, the _Gazette_ published the story of the “Smelting Works Claim.” Ben read the account aloud to Mundon, sitting on the fence outside the Works. Of course, in the tale, Ben was made a hero and Mr. Fish a double-dyed villain. “They haven’t got him black enough to suit me,” said Mundon, fiercely whittling the stick he held. “I hope they’ll paint him blacker and blacker every day for a year.” There were two items of news in the article, however, that Ben had not foreseen,--the simultaneous disappearance of Mr. Fish and one of the clerks in the City Hall. “Now that there’s no one here to stop us, I’d like to smash open those gates and finish our work.” Mundon shook his fist at the gates, which glowered back at him. “I’ve ben turnin’ over in my mind all that there slag that’s under the old wharf. I b’lieve there’s heaps of copper and lead buried there.” “No wonder you’ve been depressed--with all that on your mind,” commented Ben. “I’m to know to-day just how long it will be before the injunction can be raised. Mr. Hale says this hard-luck story of ours will hurry things--it’s going to create sympathy for our case.” “Well, it oughter. Say, Ben, just let me drop through that hole in the roof and do a little work on the quiet?” Ben shook his head. “’Twon’t do no harm. You kin set here and watch.” “No, Mundon, not for a million!” “How easy it is to talk about refusin’ a million--when you’re young!” “This thing’s going to be square on my part. I’ve made up my mind to stick to that,” Ben answered. “Hello! That boy looks like Mr. Hale’s office boy.” He sprang down from the fence and tore open the envelope which the boy gave him. “Hurrah! Mundon--we’ve won!” Ben cried. “It’s ours, and you can smash those gates as soon as you please!” Mundon slid down from his perch and, seizing a piece of scantling, struck the old gates a mighty blow that started the nails from the wood.