"Pardner?" cried Sandy.
"Pardner!" echoed Waymart, holding his pipe in his hand. "What pardner?"
"Young chap," replied Steele, "about Doc’s height and–what age should you say, Doc?"
"Probably seventeen," returned Ross. "Not much over," adding, "his name is Jones, Leslie Jones. He’s from Omaha."
"Grub stake?" asked Waymart succinctly.
"More than that," answered Steele. "Jones is going to stay and help."
The scowl on Sandy’s forehead smoothed itself out. He grinned genially at Ross. "I wonder now," he mused, "if there’s enough of us old goats up here in Meadow Greek to round up the kids and take care of ’em!"
"What about the kids taking care of the goats?" laughed Steele. "Sometimes they’re bigger hustlers."
Sandy nodded lightly. "This air’ll take the hustle out quick enough. Such high mountains as these hain’t made fer hustlers."
As Ross was returning with Steele to Weimer’s shack, the superintendent glanced at him sidewise.