Behind the tree a goodly portion of the banquet was in readiness.  Keno’s pie was there, together with a mighty stack of doughnuts, plates on plates of pickles, cans of fruit preserves, a mighty pan of cold baked beans, and a fine array of biscuits big as a man’s two fists.  From time to time the carpenter, who had saved up his appetite for nearly twenty-four hours, went back to the table and feasted his eyes on the spread.  At length he took and ate a pickle.  From that, at length, his gaze went longingly to Keno’s pie.  How one little pie could do any good to a score or so of men he failed to see.  At last, in his hunger, he could bear the temptation no longer.  He descended on the pie.  But how it came to be shied through the window, practically intact, half a moment later, was never explained to the waiting crowd.

By the time gray noon had come across the mountain desolation to the group of little shanties in the snow, old Jim was thoroughly alarmed.  Little Skeezucks was helplessly lying in his arms, inert, breathing with difficulty, and now and again moaning, as only a sick little mite of humanity can.

“We can’t take him down,” said the miner, at last.  “He ought to have a woman’s care.”

Keno was startled; his worry suddenly engulfed him.

“What kin we do?” he asked, in helplessness.

“Miss Doc’s a decent woman,” answered Jim, in despair.  “She might know what to do.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to that?” asked Keno, thoroughly amazed.

“I could bring myself to anything,” said Jim, “if only my little boy could be well and happy.”

“Then you ain’t agoin’ to take him down to the tree?”

“How can I?” answered Jim.  “He’s awful sick.  He needs something more than I can give.  He needs—­a mother.  I didn’t know how sick he was gettin’.  He won’t look up.  He couldn’t see the tree.  He can’t be like the most of little kids, for he don’t even seem to know it’s Christmas.”

“Aw, poor little feller!” said Keno.  “Jim, what we goin’ to do?”

“You go down and ask Miss Doc if I can fetch him there,” instructed Jim.  “I think she likes him, or she wouldn’t have made his little clothes.  She’s a decent woman, and I know she’s got a heart.  Go on the run!  I’m sorry I didn’t give in before.”

The fat little Keno ran, in his shirt-sleeves, and without his hat.

Jim was afraid the motionless little foundling was dying in his arms.  He could presently wait no longer, either for Keno’s return or for anything else.  He caught up two of the blankets from the bed, and, wrapping them eagerly, swiftly about the moaning little man, left his cabin standing open and hastened down the white declivity as fast as he could go, Tintoretto, with puppy whinings of concern, closely tagging at his heels.

Lufkins, starting to climb once more to the cabin, beheld him from afar.  With all his speed he darted back to the blacksmith-shop and the tree.