“It’s a game to knock our tree and banquet into a cocked hat,” said the blacksmith, grimly.  “Well—­he may get some to come, but none of old Jim’s friends or the fellers which likes little Skeezucks is goin’ to desert our own little festival.”

Nevertheless, the glitter of the home-made tree in the dingy shop was dimmed.

CHAPTER XIII

THEIR CHRISTMAS-DAY

The day before Christmas should, by right of delights about to blossom, be nearly as happy as the sweet old carnival itself, but up at the cabin on the hill it was far from being joyous.

The tiny mite of a foundling was not so well as when his friends had left him on the previous afternoon.

He was up and dressed, sitting, in his grave little way, on the miner’s knee, weakly holding his crushed-looking doll, but his cold had increased, his sweet baby face was paler, the sad, dumb look in his eyes was deeper in its questioning, the breakfast that the fond old Jim had prepared was quite untasted.

“He ain’t agoin’ to be right down sick, of course?” said the blacksmith, come to report all the progress made.  “Natchelly, we’d better go on, gittin’ ready fer the banquet?  He’ll be all right fer to-morrow?”

“Oh yes,” said Jim.  “There never yet was a Christmas that wouldn’t get a little youngster well.  He’ll come to the tree, you bet.  It’s goin’ to be the happiest time he ever had.”

Outside, the red-headed Keno was chopping at the brush.  The weather was cold and windy, the sky gray and forbidding.  When the smith had gone, old Jim, little Skeezucks, and the pup were alone.  Tintoretto, the joyous, was prancing about with a boot in his jaws.  He stumbled constantly over its bulk, and growled anew at every interference with his locomotion.

“Does little pardner like the pup?” said Jim, patting the sick little man on the back with his clumsy but comforting hand.  “Do you want him to come here and play?”

The wee bit of a parentless, deserted boy slowly shook his head.

“Don’t you like him any more?” said Jim.

A weak little nod was the answer.

“Is there anything the baby wants?” inquired the miner, tenderly.  “What would little Skeezucks like?”

For the very first time since his coming to the camp the little fellow’s brown eyes abruptly filled with tears.  His tiny lip began to tremble.

“Bruv-ver Jim,” he said, and, leaning against the rough old coat of the miner, he cried in his silent way of passionate longing, far too deep in his childish nature for the man to comprehend.

“Poor little man ain’t well,” said Jim, in a gentle way of soothing.  “Bruvver Jim is here all right, and goin’ to stay,” and, holding the quiet little figure to his heart, he stood up and walked with him up and down the dingy cabin’s length, till the shaking little sobs had ceased and the sad little man had gone to sleep.