The latter persisted in an incredulous voice, "The Dutch Weimer who used to run a miners’ supply store down in Butte?"
"Dot same," assented Weimer. "Und who might you pe?"
The stranger grinned, a one-sided grin which sent his right cheek up under the smoked goggles. "Well, Uncle Jake, do you remember a little black-headed rascal that uster hang his chin on the edge of yer counter about once a day and get a nickel’s worth of candy?"
Weimer wrinkled his brow in perplexity. "Dere vas so many plack-heads," he muttered, scratching his head.
The stranger grinned delightedly, and again his right cheek was pushed up under the goggles. "Of course there was. I wa’n’t the only calf running around loose, I know. Well, do you remember Marvin Miller?"
"Hein!" cried Weimer. He held out his hand impulsively. "Und are you Marvin Miller’s poy?"
"The same," declared the stranger, grasping the hand. "And didn’t you have a younger pard by the name of Grant?"
"Yah!" Weimer fairly shouted. "Dot I did, and he’s my pard yet."
"Uster git his eyes about shut, and tighten his lips, when things didn’t go to suit ’im," grinned Marvin Miller’s son.
"That’s my father all right!" cried Ross.