Yes; it was the same Stacy that Barker looked at, albeit his brown beard was now closely cropped around his determined mouth and jaw in a kind of grave decorum, and his energetic limbs already attuned to the rigor of clothes of fashionable cut and still more rigorous sombreness of color.
"Barker boy," he began, with the familiar twinkle in his keen eyes which the younger partner remembered, "I don't encourage stag dancing among my young men during bank hours, and you'll please to remember that we are not on Heavy Tree Hill"-- "Where," broke in Barker enthusiastically, "we were only overlooked by the Black Spur Range and the Sierran snow-line; where the nearest voice that came to you was quarter of a mile away as the crow flies and nearly a mile by the trail." "And was generally an oath!" said Stacy.

"But you're in San Francisco NOW.

Where are you stopping ?" He took up a pencil and held it over a memorandum pad awaitingly.
"At the Brook House.

It's"-- "Hold on! 'Brook House,'" Stacy repeated as he jotted it down.

"And for how long ?" "Oh, a day or two.