Later, when Steve went into the smoker, he struck up acquaintance with him; initiated by the mere demand for a light, continued through community of interest, as both being evidently non-urban.
A voluble and open-hearted person, the stranger, displaying much specie during their not infrequent visits to the buffet for refreshment of the jocund grape, where they vied with each other in liberality, and one who naively imparted his private history without reticence.

A lumberman, who had risen from the ranks; a Non-Com.

of Industry, so to speak, who, having made his pile, was now, impelled by filial piety, revisiting his old New England Home.
This touching confidence so ingratiated the bluff and hearty son of toil to the unsuspicious cowboy, that he, in turn, began, to ooze information at every pore.

Steve Thompson was his name; miner of Butte, Montana.

He had, after years of struggle and defeat, made a lucky strike.