Something Dewing, owner of Cobre's Emporium of Chance, sat in his room in the Admiral Dewey Hotel.

It was a large and pleasant room, refitted and over-furnished by Mr.Dewing at the expense of his fellow townsmen, grateful or otherwise.

It is well to mention here that, upon the tongues of the scurrile, "Something," as a praise-name and over-name for Mr.
Dewing, suffered a sea change to "Surething"-- Surething Dewing; just as the Admiral Dewey Hotel was less favorably known as "Stagger Inn." Mr.Dewing's eye rested dreamily upon the picture, much praised of connoisseurs, framed by his window--the sharp encircling contours of Cobre Mountain; the wedge of tawny desert beyond Farewell Gap.

Rousing himself from such contemplation, he broke a silence, sour and unduly prolonged.
"Four o'clock, and all's ill! Johnson is not the man to be cheated out of a fortune without putting up a fight.

Young Mitchell himself is neither fool nor weakling.