For a second the dog was voiceless. Then he let out a bark that made
things jump, especially the tiny man and himself.

"Here, come here, Tintoretto," drawlingly called the man from the
trail. "Come back here, you young tenderfoot."

But Tintoretto answered that he wouldn't. He also said, in the
language of puppy barks, that important discoveries demanded not only
his but his master's attention where he was, forthwith.

There was nothing else for it; the mountain was obliged to come to
Mohammed--or the man to the pup. Then the miner, no less than
Tintoretto, was astonished.

To ward off the barking, the red little hunter had raised his arm
across his face, but his big brown eyes were visible above his hand,
and their childish seriousness appealed to the man at once.

"Well, cut my diamonds if it ain't a kid!" drawled he. "Injun
pappoose, or I'm an elk! Young feller, where'd you come from, hey?
What in mischief do you think you're doin' here?"

The tiny "Injun" made no reply. Tintoretto tried some puppy addresses.
He gave a little growl of friendship, and, clambering over rabbits and
all, began to lick the helpless child on the face and hands with
unmistakable cordiality. One of the rabbits fell and rolled over.
Tintoretto bounded backward in consternation, only to gather his
courage almost instantly upon him and bark with lusty defiance.

"Shut up, you anermated disturbance," commanded his owner, mildly.