“Tintoretto?” said the company, and they variously attacked the appropriateness of any such a “handle.”

“What fer did you ever call him that?” asked Bone.

“Wal, I thought he deserved it,” Jim confessed.

“Poor little kid—­that’s all I’ve got to say,” replied the compassionate blacksmith.

“That ain’t the kid’s name,” corrected Jim, with alacrity.  “That’s what I call the pup.”

“That’s worse,” said Field.  “For he’s a dumb critter and can’t say nothing back.”

“But what’s the little youngster’s name?” inquired the smith, once again.

“Yes, what’s the little shaver’s name?” echoed the teamster.  “If it’s as long as the pup’s, why, give us only a mile or two at first, and the rest to-morrow.”

“I was goin’ to name him ‘Aborigineezer,’” Jim admitted, somewhat sheepishly.  “But he ain’t no Piute Injun, so I can’t.”

“Hard-hearted ole sea-serpent!” ejaculated Field.  “No wonder he looks like cryin’.”

“Oh, he ain’t goin’ to cry,” said the blacksmith, roughly patting the frightened little pilgrim’s cheek with his great, smutty hand.  “What’s he got to cry about, now he’s here in Borealis?”

“Well, leave him cry, if he wants to,” said the fat little Keno.  “I ’ain’t heard a baby cry fer six or seven years.”

“Go off in a corner and cry in your pocket, and leave it come out as you want it,” suggested Bone.  “Jim, you said the little feller kin talk?”

“Like a greasy dictionary,” said Jim, proudly.

“Well, start him off on somethin’ stirrin’.”

“You can’t start a little youngster off a-talkin’ when you want to, any more than you can start a turtle runnin’ to a fire,” drawled Jim, sagely.

“Then, kin he walk?” insisted the bar-keep.

Jim said, “What do you s’pose he’s wearin’ pants for, if he couldn’t?”

“Put him down and leave us see him, then.”

“This ain’t no place for a child to be walkin’ ’round loose,” objected the gray old miner.  “He’ll walk some other time.”

“Aw, put him down,” coaxed the smith.  “We’d like to see a little feller walk.  There’s never bin no such a sight in Borealis.”

“Yes, put him down!” chorused the crowd.

“We’ll give him plenty of elbow-room,” added Webber.  “Git back there, boys, and give him a show.”

As the group could be satisfied with nothing less, and Jim was aware of their softer feelings, he disengaged the tiny hand that was closed on his collar and placed his tiny charge upon his feet in the road.

How very small, indeed, he looked in his quaint little trousers and his old fur cap!

Instantly he threw the one little arm not engaged with the furry doll about the big, dusty knee of his known protector, and buried his face in the folds of the rough, blue overalls.

“Aw, poor little tike!” said one of the men.  “Take him back up, Jim.  Anyway, you ’ain’t yet told us his name, and how kin any little shaver walk which ain’t got a name?”