Then once more he took his little man on his arm and started away.  But when he had walked a half-dozen rods, on the rocks that indented the tender soles of his stockinged feet, he was stepping with gingerly uncertainty.  He presently came to a halt.  The ground was not only lumpy, it was cold.

“I’ll tell you what,” he slowly drawled, “in this little world there’s about one chance in a million for a man to make a President of himself, and about nine hundred and ninety-nine chances in a thousand for him to make a fool of himself.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Keno.

“All the same, if only I had the resolution I’d leave them boots there forever!”

“What for?” said Keno.

“Wal,” drawled Jim, “a man can’t always tell he comes of a proud family by the cut of his clothes.  But, Keno, you ain’t troubled with pride, so you go back and fetch me the boots.”

Then, when he presently drew his cowhide casings on, he sat for a moment enjoying the comfort of those soles beneath his feet.  For the time that they halted where they were, he held his rescued little boy to his heart in an ecstasy such as he never had dreamed could be given to a man.

CHAPTER X

PREPARATIONS FOR CHRISTMAS

When the word spread ’round that Jim and the quaint little foundling were once more united, the story of the episode at Miss Doc’s home necessarily followed to make the tale complete.  Immensely relieved and grateful, to know that no dire calamity had befallen the camp’s first and only child, the rough men nevertheless lost no time in conceiving the outcome to be fairly amusing.

“You kin bet that Doc was awake all the time, and listenin’, as long as Jim was there,” said Bone, “but six yoke of oxen couldn’t ‘a’ dragged his two eyes open, or him out of bed, to mingle in the ceremonies.”

To prevent a recurrence of similar descents upon his household, Jim arranged his plans in such a manner that the timid little Skeezucks should never again be left alone.  Indeed, the gray old miner hardly ever permitted the little chap to be out of his sight.  Hour by hour, day by day, he remained at his cabin, playing with the child, telling him stories, asking him questions, making him promises of all the wonderful toys and playthings he would manufacture soon.

Once in a while the little fellow spoke.  That utterance came with difficulty to his lips was obvious.  He must always have been a silent, backward little fellow, and sad, as children rarely become at an age so tender.  Of who or what he was he gave no clew.  He seemed to have no real name, to remember no parents, to feel no confidence in anything save “Bruvver Jim” and Tintoretto.

In the course of a week a number of names had been suggested for the tiny bit of a stranger, but none could suit the taste of Jim.  He waited still for a truant inspiration, and meanwhile “Skeezucks” came daily more and more into use among the men of Borealis.