"Aw, poor little tike!" said one of the men. "Take him back up, Jim.
Anyway, you 'ain't yet told us his name, and how kin any little shaver
walk which ain't got a name?"

Jim took the mere little toy of a man again in his arms and held him
close against his heart.

"He 'ain't really got any name," he confessed. "If only I had the
poetic vocabulary I'd give him a high-class out-and-outer."

"What's the matter with a good old home-made name like Si or Hank or
Zeke?" inquired Field, who had once been known as Hank himself.

"They ain't good enough," objected Jim. "If only I can git an
inspiration I'll fit him out like a barn with a bran'-new coat of
paint."

"Well, s'pose--" started Keno, but what he intended to say was never
concluded.

"What's the fight?" interrupted a voice, and the men shuffled aside to
give room to a well-dressed, dapper-looking man. It was Parky, the
gambler. He was tall, and easy of carriage, and cultivated a curving
black mustache. In his scarf he wore a diamond as large as a marble.
At his heels a shivering little black-and-tan dog, with legs no larger
than pencils and with a skull of secondary importance to its eyes,
followed him mincingly into the circle and stood beside his feet with
its tail curved in under its body.