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In the spring of ’64, Virginia City mines still yielded treasure harvests unbelievable.  Windham’s bank account had risen to the quarter-million mark.  Month by month he watched his assets grow by leaps more marvelous than even his romantic fancy could fore-vision.  Stocks were climbing at a rate which raised the value of each share $100 every thirty days.

San Francisco’s Stock and Exchange Board, the leading of the three such institutions, had quarters in the Montgomery block.  Electric telegraphs, which flashed its stock quotations round the world, made it a money power in London, Paris and New York.

Benito had a home now in South Park, the city’s new, exclusive residence section.  From there the Omnibus Street Railway Company, in which he was a large stockholder, operated horse cars to North Beach.  He wore a high hat now and spectacles.  There were touches of gray in his hair.

As he entered the exchange, a nimble-fingered Morse-operator was marking figures on a blackboard.

Windham heard his name called; turning, met the outstretched hand of William Ralston.  They chatted for a time on current matters.  There was to be a Merchants’ Exchange.  Already ground was broken for the building.  The Bank of California, one of Ralston’s enterprises, would soon open its doors.  Ralston was in a dozen ventures, all of them constructive, public spirited.  He counted his friends by the hundreds.  Suddenly he turned from contemplation of the blackboard to Benito.

“Carrying much Virginia City nowadays?”

Benito told him.  Ralston knit his brow, deliberating.  Then he said with crisp decision, “Better start unloading soon, my son.”

Benito was surprised; expostulated.  Ophir, Gould and Curry, Savage were as steady as a rock.  He didn’t want to lose a “bag of money.”  Ralston heard him, nodded curtly, walked away.  Disturbed, rebellious, Benito quit the place.  He wanted quiet to digest the older man’s advice.  Ralston had the name of making few mistakes.  Restlessly Benito sought an answer to his problem.  In the end he went home undecided and retired dinnerless, explaining that he had a headache.  He awoke with a fever the next morning.  Alice, frightened by his haggard eyes, sent Po Lun for a doctor.

CHAPTER LX

THE SHATTERED BUBBLE

Benito looked up from his pillows, tried to rise and found that he had not the strength.  Someone was holding his wrist.  Oh, yes, Dr. Beverly Cole.  Behind him stood Alice and Robert....  How tall the boy looked beside his little mother!  They seemed to be tired, worried.  And Alice had tears in her eyes.

He heard the doctor’s voice afar off, saying, “Yes, he’ll live.  The danger’s over—­barring complications.”  Once more his senses drifted, slept.

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