He rang a lusty summons from the steel, that fetched all the dressed-up congregation of the town hastening to the scene.  Still, old Jim, the faithful Keno, little Skeezucks, and Tintoretto failed to appear.  A deputation was therefore sent up the hill, where Jim was found informing his household that if only he had the celerity of action he would certainly make a Sunday suit of clothing for the tiny little man.  For himself, he had washed and re-turned his shirt, combed his hair, and put on a better pair of boots, which the pup had been chewing to occupy his leisure time.

The small but impressive procession came slowly down the trail at last, Jim in the lead, with the grave little foundling on his arm.

“Boys,” said he, as at last he entered the dingy shop and sat his quaint bit of a man on the anvil, over which he had thoughtfully thrown his coat—­“boys, if only I’d had about fifteen minutes more of time I’d have thought up all the tricks you ever saw in a church.”

The men filed in, awkwardly taking off their hats, and began to seat themselves as best they could, on anything they found available.  Webber, the smith, went stoutly at his bellows, and blew up a fire that flamed two feet above the forge, fountaining fiercely with sparks of the iron in the coal, and tossing a ruddy light to the darkest corners of the place.  The incense of labor—­that homely fragrance of the smithy all over the world—­spread fresh and new to the very door itself.  Old Jim edged closer to the anvil and placed his hand on the somewhat frightened little foundling, sitting there so gravely, and clasping his doll in fondness to his heart.

Outside, it was noted, Field had halted the red-headed Keno for a moment’s whispered conversation.  Keno nodded knowingly.  Then he came inside, and, addressing them all, but principally Jim, he said: 

“Say, before we open up, Miss Doc would like to know if she kin come.”

A silence fell on all the men.  Webber went hurriedly and closed the ponderous door.

“Wal, she wouldn’t be apt to like it till we get a little practised up,” said the diplomatic Jim, who knew the tenor of his auditors.  “Tell her maybe she kin—­some other time.”

“This ain’t no regular elemercenary institution,” added the teamster.

“Why not now?” demanded Field.  “Why can’t she come?”

“Becuz,” said the smith, “this church ain’t no place for a woman, anyhow.”

A general murmur of assent came from all the men save Field and Doc Dennihan himself.

“Leave the show commence,” said a voice.

“Start her up,” said another.

“Wal, now,” drawled Jim, as he nervously stroked his beard, “let’s take it easy.  Which opening do all you fellers prefer?”

No one answered.

One man finally inquired.  “How many kinds is there?”

Jim said, “Wal, there’s the Methodist, the Baptist, the Graeco-Roman, Episcopalian, and—­the catch-as-catch-can.”