Jim took the mere little toy of a man again in his arms and held him close against his heart.

“He ’ain’t really got any name,” he confessed.  “If only I had the poetic vocabulary I’d give him a high-class out-and-outer.”

“What’s the matter with a good old home-made name like Si or Hank or Zeke?” inquired Field, who had once been known as Hank himself.

“They ain’t good enough,” objected Jim.  “If only I can git an inspiration I’ll fit him out like a barn with a bran’-new coat of paint.”

“Well, s’pose—­” started Keno, but what he intended to say was never concluded.

“What’s the fight?” interrupted a voice, and the men shuffled aside to give room to a well-dressed, dapper-looking man.  It was Parky, the gambler.  He was tall, and easy of carriage, and cultivated a curving black mustache.  In his scarf he wore a diamond as large as a marble.  At his heels a shivering little black-and-tan dog, with legs no larger than pencils and with a skull of secondary importance to its eyes, followed him mincingly into the circle and stood beside his feet with its tail curved in under its body.

“What have you got?  Huh!  Nothing but a kid!” said the gambler, in supreme contempt.

“And a pup!” said Keno, aggressively.

The gambler ignored the presence of the child, especially as Tintoretto bounded clumsily forward and bowled his own shaking effigy of a canine endways in one glad burst of friendship.

The black-and-tan let out a feeble yelp.  With his boot the gambler threw Tintoretto six feet away, where he landed on his feet and turned about growling and barking in puppywise questioning of this sudden manoeuvre.  With a few more staccato yelps, the shivering black-and-tan retreated behind the gambler’s legs.

“Of all the ugly brutes I ever seen,” said Parky, “that’s the worst yellow flea-trap of the whole caboose.”

“Wal, I don’t know,” drawled Jim, as he patted his timid little pilgrim on the back in a way of comfort.  “All dogs look alike to a flea, and I reckon Tintoretto is as good flea-feed as the next.  And, anyhow, I wouldn’t have a dog the fleas had deserted.  When the fleas desert a dog, it’s the same as when the rats desert a ship.  About that time a dog has lost his doghood, and then he ain’t no better than a man who’s lost his manhood.”

“Aw, I’d thump you and the cur together if you didn’t have that kid on deck,” sneered the gambler.

“You couldn’t thump a drum,” answered Jim, easily.  “Come back here, Tintoretto.  Don’t you touch that skinny little critter with the shakes.  I wouldn’t let you eat no such a sugar-coated insect.”

The crowd was enjoying the set-to of words immensely.  They now looked to Parky for something hot.  But the man of card-skill had little wit of words.

“Don’t git too funny, old boy,” he cautioned.  “I’d just as soon have you for breakfast as not.”