"Aw, listen to the man afraid to know anything about anything!" broke
in the blacksmith. "One week! He's four or five months, or I'm a
woodchuck."

"You kin tell by his teeth," suggested a leathery individual, stroking
his bony jaw knowingly. "I used to be up on the game myself, but I'm a
little out of practice jest at present."

"Shut up, you scare him, Shaky," admonished the teamster. "He's a
pretty little chipmunk. Jim, wherever did you git him?"

Jim explained every detail of his trip to fetch the pup, stretching out
his story of finding the child and bringing him hither, with pride in
every item of his wonderful performance. His audience listened with
profound attention, broken only by an occasional exclamation.

"Old If-only Jim! Old son-of-a-sea-cook!" repeated one, time after
time.

Meanwhile the silent little man himself was clinging to the miner's
flannel collar with all his baby strength. With shy little glances he
scanned the members of the group, and held the tighter to the one safe
anchorage in which he seemed to feel a confidence. A number of the
rough men furtively attempted a bit of coquetry, to win the favor of a
smile.

"You don't mean, Jim, you found him jest a-settin' right in the bresh,
with them dead jack-rabbits lyin' all 'round?" insisted the carpenter.

"That's what," said Jim, and reluctantly he brought the tale to its