"Mr. Marshal is, yes. Who are you? How do you know Marshal? And what is that which you are pulling out of your pants, if they are pants?"
"Census list. Names of everybody in the Santa Magdalena. I had to steal it."
"It looks like microfilm, the writing is so small. And the roll goes on and on. There must be a million names here."
"Little bit more, little bit more. I get two bits a name."
They got Marshal there. He was very busy, but he came. He had been given a deadline by the mayor and the citizen's group. He had to produce a population of ten thousand people for High Plains, Texas; and this was difficult, for there weren't that many people in the town. He had been working hard on it, though; but he came when the police called him.
"You Marshal's little boy? You look just like your father," said the midget.
"That voice, I should know that voice even if it's cracked to pieces. That has to be Manuel's voice."
"Sure, I'm Manuel. Just like I left, thirty-five years ago."
"You can't be Manuel, shrunk three feet and two hundred pounds and aged a million."
"You look here at my census slip. It says I'm Manuel. And here are nine more of the regular people, and one million of the little people. I couldn't get them on the right forms, though. I had to steal their list."