The men all guffawed in their raucous way.

"Keeps mighty good time, all the same," said Field, and he re-swung the
chain, like a hammock, from the parted wings of his vest, and dropped
the huskily ticking guardian of the minutes back to its place in his
pocket.

"Watches that don't keep perfect time," drawled Jim, "are scarcer than
wimmin who tell their age on the square."

"Better come over, Jim, and have a drink," suggested the barkeep.
"You're sure one of the movin' spirits of Borealis."

"No, I don't think I'll start the little feller off with the drinkin'
example," replied the miller. "You'll often notice that the men who
git the name of bein' movin' spirits is them that move a good deal of
whiskey into their interior department. I reckon we'll mosey home the
way we are."

"I guess I'll join you up above," said the fat little Keno, pulling
stoutly at his sleeves. "You'll need me, anyway, to cut some brush fer
the fire."

With tiny Skeezucks gravely looking backward at the group of men all
waving their hats in a rough farewell, old Jim started proudly up the
trail that led to the Babylonian Glory claim, with Tintoretto romping
awkwardly at his heels.

Suddenly, Webber, the blacksmith, left the groups and ran quickly after
them up the slope.