Market street was now a lordly thoroughfare; horse-cars jingled merrily along the leading streets.  Up Clay street ran that wonder of the age, a cable-tram invented by old Hallidie, the engineer.  They had made game of him for years until he demonstrated his invention for the conquering of hills.  Now the world was seeking him to solve its transportation problems.

Ralston, as usual, was riding on the crest of fortune.  His was a veritable lust for city building.  Each successive day he founded some new enterprise.

“Like a master juggler,” said Benito to his wife, “he keeps a hundred interests in the air.  Let’s see.  There are the Mission Woolen Mills, the Kimball Carriage Works, the Cornell Watch Factory—­of all things—­the West Coast Furniture plant, the San Francisco Sugar Refinery, the Grand Hotel, a dry dock at Hunter’s Point, the California Theater, a reclamation scheme at Sherman Island, the San Joaquin Valley irrigating system, the Rincon Hill cut, the extension of Montgomery street ...” he checked them off on his fingers, pausing finally for lack of breath.

“You’ve forgotten the Palace Hotel,” said Alice smiling.

“No,” Benito said, “I hadn’t got that far.  But the Palace is typical.  Ralston wants San Francisco to have the best of everything the world can give.  He’s mad about this town.  It’s wife and child to him.  Why it’s almost his God!”

Alice looked into his eyes.  “You’re fearful for your prince!  You Monte Cristo!”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m frankly worried.  Something’s got to drop....  It’s too—­too splendid.”

* * * * *

As he went down Market street toward Montgomery, Benito paused to observe the new Palace Hotel.  Hundreds of bricklayers, carpenters and other workmen were raising it with astonishing speed.  Hod-carriers raced up swaying ladders, steam-winches puffed and snorted; great vats of lime and mortar blockaded the street.  It was to have a great inner court upon which seven galleries would look down.  Ralston boasted he would make it a hotel for travelers to talk of round the world.  And no one in San Francisco doubted it.

Benito, eyes upraised to view the labors of a bustling human hive, almost collided with two gentlemen, who were strolling westward, arm in arm.  He apologized.  They roared endearing curses at him and insisted that he join them in a drink.

They were J.C.  Flood and W.S.  O’Brien, former saloon proprietors now reputed multi-millionaires.

Early in the seventies they had joined forces with Jim Mackey, a blaster, at Virginia City and a mining man named J.G.  Fair.  Between them they bought up the supposedly depleted Consolidated Virginia Mine, paying from $4 to $9 each for its 10,700 shares.  Mining experts smiled good naturedly, forgot the matter.  Then the world was brought upstanding by the news of a bonanza hitherto unrivaled.

Con.  Virginia had gained a value of $150,000,000.