“That’s right, and I take it back.  I oughtn’t to have said it, but unless a feller has got some sort o’ religion he has a mighty hard time namin’ people in this world.  What’s that?”

Jim started with the sound in his ear of what seemed to be a cry of distress.

“That’s one of the crazy people.  They do it all the time.’”

Then Jim thought of the speeches he had heard in the town-meeting, and recalled the distress of Miss Butterworth, and the significance of all the scenes he had so recently witnessed.

“Look ’ere, boy; can ye keep right ’ere,” tapping him on his breast, “whatsomever I tell ye?  Can you keep yer tongue still?—­hope you’ll die if ye don’t?”

There was something in these questions through which the intuitions of the lad saw help, both for his father and himself.  Hope strung his little muscles in an instant, his attitude became alert, and he replied: 

“I’ll never say anything if they kill me.”

“Well, I’ll tell ye what I’m goin’ to do.  I’m goin’ to stay to the poor-house to-night, if they’ll keep me, an’ I guess they will; and I’m goin’ to see yer pa too, and somehow you and he must be got out of this place.”

The boy threw his arms around Jim’s neck, and kissed him passionately, again and again, without the power, apparently, to give any other expression to his emotions.

“Oh, God! don’t, boy!  That’s a sort o’ thing I can’t stand.  I ain’t used to it.”

Jim paused, as if to realize how sweet it was to hold the trusting child in his arms, and to be thus caressed, and then said:  “Ye must be mighty keerful, and do just as I bid ye.  If I stay to the poor-house to-night, I shall want to see ye in the mornin’, and I shall want to see ye alone.  Now ye know there’s a big stump by the side of the road, half-way up to the old school-house.”

Harry gave his assent.

“Well, I want ye to be thar, ahead o’ me, and then I’ll tell ye jest what I’m a goin’ to do, and jest what I want to have ye do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now mind, ye mustn’t know me when I’m about the house, and mustn’t tell anybody you’ve seed me, and I mustn’t know you.  Now ye leave all the rest to Jim Fenton, yer pa’s old friend.  Don’t ye begin to feel a little better now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can kiss me again, if ye want to.  I didn’t mean to choke ye off.  That was all in fun, ye know.”

Harry kissed him, and then Jim said:  “Now make tracks for yer old boardin’-house.  I’ll be along bimeby.”

The boy started upon a brisk run, and Jim still sat upon the stone watching him until he disappeared somewhere among the angles of the tumble-down buildings that constituted the establishment.

“Well, Jim Fenton,” he said to himself, “ye’ve been spilin’ fur somethin’ to do fur somebody.  I guess ye’ve got it, and not a very small job neither.”

Then he shouldered his pack, took up his rifle, looked up at the cloudy and blustering sky, and pushed up the hill, still talking to himself, and saying:  “A little boy of about his haighth and bigness ain’t a bad thing to take.”