bein' undergrowed, why, how could he go on a rabbit-drive along with
the Injuns? I'll bet you there's somethin' mysterious about his
origin."

"Huh! Don't you jump onto no little shaver's origin when you 'ain't
got any too much to speak of yourself," the blacksmith commanded.
"He's as big as any little skeezucks of his size!"

"Kin he read an' write?" asked a person of thirty-six, who had "picked
up" the mentioned accomplishments at the age of thirty-five.

"He's alive and smart as mustard!" put in Keno, a champion by right of
prior acquaintance with the timid little man.

"Wal, that's all right, but mustard don't do no sums in 'rithmetic,"
said the bar-keep. "I'm kind of stuck, myself, on this here pup."

Tintoretto had been busily engaged making friends in any direction most
handily presented. He wound sinuously out of the barkeep's reach,
however, with pup-wise discrimination. The attention of the company
was momentarily directed to the small dog, who came in for not a few of
the camp's outspoken compliments.

"He's mebbe all right, but he's homely as Aunt Marier comin' through
the thrashin'-machine," decided the teamster.

The carpenter added: "He's so all-fired awkward he can't keep step with
hisself."

"Wal, he ain't so rank in his judgment as some I could indicate,"