stretched to the farthest confines of the place. Then as fast as the
miners and other laborers, who were busy with work, could get away for
a time sufficiently long, they made the pilgrimage up the slope to the
cabin where the tiny foundling had domicile. They found the timid
little man seated, with his doll, on the floor, from which he watched
them gravely, in his baby way.

Half the honors of receiving the groups and showing off the quaint
little Skeezucks were assumed by Keno, with a grace that might have
been easy had he not been obliged to pull down his shirt-sleeves with
such exasperating frequency.

But Jim was the hero of the hour, as he very well knew. Time after
time, and ever with thrilling new detail and added incident, he
recounted the story of his find, gradually robbing even Tintoretto, the
pup, of such of the glory as he really had earned.

The pup, however, was recklessly indifferent. He could pile up fresh
glories every minute by bowling the little pilgrim on his back and
walking on his chest to lap his ear. This he proceeded to do, in his
clumsy way of being friendly, with a regularity only possible to an
enthusiast. And every time he did it anew, either Keno or Jim or a
visitor would shy something at him and call him names. This, however,
only served to incite him to livelier antics of licking everybody's
face, wagging himself against the furniture, and dragging the various
bombarding missiles between the legs of all the company.

There were men, who apparently had nothing else to do, who returned to
the cabin on the hill with every new visiting deputation. A series of
ownership in and familiarity with the grave little chap and his story