Not by any means consenting to permit old Jim to understand how astonishment was oozing from their every pore, the men brought forth by Keno’s news could not, however, entirely mask their incredulity and interest.  As Jim came deliberately down the trail, with the pale little foundling on his arm, he was greeted with every possible term of familiarity, to all of which he drawled a response in kind.

Not a few in the group of citizens pulled off their hats at the nearer approach of the child, then somewhat sheepishly put them on again.  With stoical resolutions almost immediately upset, they gathered closely in about the miner and his tiny companion, crowding the red-headed Keno away from his place of honor next to the child.

The quaint little pilgrim, in his old, fur cap and long, “man’s” trousers, looked at the men in a grave way of doubt and questioning.

“It’s a sure enough kid, all the same,” said one of the men, as if he had previously entertained some doubts of the matter.  “And ain’t he white!”

“Of course a white kid’s white,” answered the barkeep, scornfully.

“Awful cute little shaver,” said another.  “By cracky, Jim, you must have had him up yer sleeve for a week!  He don’t look more’n about one week old.”

“Aw, listen to the man afraid to know anything about anything!” broke in the blacksmith.  “One week!  He’s four or five months, or I’m a woodchuck.”

“You kin tell by his teeth,” suggested a leathery individual, stroking his bony jaw knowingly.  “I used to be up on the game myself, but I’m a little out of practice jest at present.”

“Shut up, you scare him, Shaky,” admonished the teamster.  “He’s a pretty little chipmunk.  Jim, wherever did you git him?”

Jim explained every detail of his trip to fetch the pup, stretching out his story of finding the child and bringing him hither, with pride in every item of his wonderful performance.  His audience listened with profound attention, broken only by an occasional exclamation.

“Old If-only Jim!  Old son-of-a-sea-cook!” repeated one, time after time.

Meanwhile the silent little man himself was clinging to the miner’s flannel collar with all his baby strength.  With shy little glances he scanned the members of the group, and held the tighter to the one safe anchorage in which he seemed to feel a confidence.  A number of the rough men furtively attempted a bit of coquetry, to win the favor of a smile.

“You don’t mean, Jim, you found him jest a-settin’ right in the bresh, with them dead jack-rabbits lyin’ all ’round?” insisted the carpenter.

“That’s what,” said Jim, and reluctantly he brought the tale to its final conclusion, adding his theory of the loss of the child by the Indians on their hunt, and bearing down hard on the one little speech that the tiny foundling had made just this morning.

The rough men were silenced by this.  One by one they took off their hats again, smoothed their hair, and otherwise made themselves a trifle prettier to look upon.