messenger, who ran breathlessly back with it to the Ledge as
the horseman galloped away again.

"A telegraph for Jackson Wells," he said, handing it to the young man
who had been reading the scrap of paper.

There was a dead silence. Telegrams were expensive rarities in those
days, especially with the youthful Bohemian miners of the Zip Coon
Ledge. They were burning with curiosity, yet a singular thing happened.
Accustomed as they had been to a life of brotherly familiarity and
unceremoniousness, this portentous message from the outside world of
civilization recalled their old formal politeness. They looked steadily
away from the receiver of the telegram, and he on his part stammered an
apologetic "Excuse me, boys," as he broke the envelope.

There was another pause, which seemed to be interminable to the waiting
partners. Then the voice of Wells, in quite natural tones, said, "By
gum! that's funny! Read that, Dexter,--read it out loud."

Dexter Rice, the foreman, took the proffered telegram from Wells's hand,
and read as follows:--

Your uncle, Quincy Wells, died yesterday, leaving you sole heir. Will
attend you to-morrow for instructions.

BAKER AND TWIGGS,

Attorneys, Sacramento.

The three miners' faces lightened and turned joyously to Wells; but HIS
face looked puzzled.

"May we congratulate you, Mr. Wells?" said Wyngate, with affected
politeness; "or possibly your uncle may have been English, and a title
goes with the 'prop,' and you may be Lord Wells, or Very Wells--at
least."

But here Jackson Wells's youthful face lost its perplexity, and he began
to laugh long and silently to himself. This was protracted to such an
extent that Dexter asserted himself,--as foreman and senior partner.

"Look here, Jack! don't sit there cackling like a chuckle-headed magpie,
if you ARE the heir."

"I--can't--help it," gasped Jackson. "I am the heir--but you see, boys,
there AIN'T ANY PROPERTY."

"What do you mean? Is all that a sell?" demanded Rice.

"Not much! Telegraph's too expensive for that sort o' feelin'. You see,
boys, I've got an Uncle Quincy, though I don't know him much, and he MAY
be dead. But his whole fixin's consisted of a claim the size of ours,
and played out long ago: a ramshackle lot o' sheds called a cottage, and
a kind of market garden of about three acres, where he reared and sold
vegetables. He was always poor, and as for calling it 'property,' and ME
the 'heir'--good Lord!"

"A mis