came upon them rapidly. Field, the father of Borealis, was the most
assiduous guide the camp afforded. By afternoon he knew more about the
child than even Jim himself.

For his part, the lanky Jim sat on a stool, looking wiser than Solomon
and Moses rolled in one, and greeted his wondering acquaintances with a
calm and dignity that his oneness in the great event was magnifying
hourly. That such an achievement as finding a lost little pilgrim in
the wilderness might be expected of his genius every day was firmly
impressed upon himself, if not on all who came.

"Speakin' of catfish, Jim thinks he's hoein' some potatoes." said Field
to a group of his friends. "If one of us real live spirits of Borealis
had bin in his place, it's ten to one we'd 'a' found a pair of twins."

All the remainder of the day, and even after dinner, and up to eight
o'clock in the evening, the new arrivals, or the old ones over again,
made the cabin on the hill their Mecca.

"Shut the door, Keno, and sit outside, and tell any more that come
along, the show is over for the day," instructed Jim, at last. "The
boy is goin' to bed."

"Did he bring a nightie?" said Keno.

"Forgot it, I reckon," answered Jim, as he took the tired little chap
in his arms. "If only I had the enterprise I'd make him one to-night."

But it never got made. The pretty little armful of a boy went to sleep
with all his baby garments on, the long "man's" trousers and all, and