"She really does like him; but she does the washin' fer the Camp, an'
helps with the dishes, an' sews when she kin git a job at it. But there
ain't none of 'em reg'lar, an' sometimes there ain't more'n enough fer
us two t' live on. Then she gits pretty tired an' discouraged like, an'
says Baldy's a useless expense, an' keeps me from doin' my chores,
'cause I like t' play with him, an'--"

"Yes, yes, I see," broke in the Woman hastily, anxious to spare him any
further revelations of a painful nature. "I know exactly how it is; but
maybe we could make some arrangement with your mother about the dog. We
will take a sort of an option on him; you can keep him with you, and we
will pay a certain sum for the privilege of being permitted to buy him
outright before the stampede actually begins."

The boy looked at her suspiciously, but there was no smile on her lips,
and she rose a notch in his estimation. She evidently did realize, in a
slight degree, what an unusual bargain was being offered in his
heart-breaking sacrifice.

"An' it ain't 'cause his appetite's gone that makes him thin. I wasn't
tellin' the truth about that," he stammered desperately; "he's jest
_hungry_." The child's mouth quivered and he hesitated, yet he was
determined to tell the whole of the sordid little tragedy now that he
had begun. "But spendin' too much time with him when I should be workin'
ain't the worst. To-day I done somethin' that mebbe she'll think ain't
exac'ly square; an' my mother believes if you ain't square in this world
you ain't much worth while."

"You're not, son," agreed "Scotty" heartily. "Your mother's right."