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 miser, as sure as you’re born!” said Wyngate, with optimistic decision.  “That’s always the way.  You’ll find every crack of that blessed old shed stuck full of greenbacks and certificates of deposit, and lots of gold dust and coin buried all over that cow patch!  And of course no one suspected it!  And of course he lived alone, and never let any one get into his house—­and nearly starved himself!  Lord love you!  There’s hundreds of such cases.  The world is full of ’em!”

“That’s so,” chimed in Pulaski Briggs, the fourth partner, “and I tell you what, Jacksey, we’ll come over with you the day you take possession, and just ‘prospect’ the whole blamed shanty, pigsties, and potato patch, for fun—­and won’t charge you anything.”