“Why not, youngster?” asked a deep voice from the gloom beyond the stove, and Jacky saw with a start that Alick Duncan was already there with his offer to buy.

“Because,” began the boy, “because—­well, because he helps us, Andy and me; he helps us light up at night.”  It was a lame excuse, and poor Jacky knew it.

“It appears to me Andy ain’t doing much lighting up these days,” went on the foreman.  “And you know, kid, Andy’s old and sick, and money don’t come easy to him.  If he gets one square meal of pork and beans a day, he’s getting more than I think he does.  The horse is no use to him now.  He can’t even pay for its keep when next winter comes.  He can’t use it, anyhow, and Andy needs the money.”

But the boy had now recovered his balance.

“But timber hauling would kill old Grey.  He wouldn’t last any time at it; he’s too old,” he argued.

“That’s so, sunny,” said the foreman; “he sure can’t last long at that work, but don’t you see Andy will have his money, even if the horse does peg out?”

“But—­but Grey will die,” said the boy tremulously.

“Maybe,” answered the foreman, “but Andy will have something to live on, and that is more important.”

“But I’ll help Andy,” cried the boy enthusiastically.  “I’m used to the lighting up now.  I can do all the work.  Can’t the mill hands go on paying him just the same as ever?  Can’t they, Andy?  I’ll do the lamp-lighting for you, and we’ll just keep old Grey.  Won’t you, Andy?  Won’t you?”

The boy was at Andy’s shoulder, his thin young fingers clutched the old shirt-sleeve excitedly, his voice arose, high and shrill and earnest.

“Why, boy,” said the old Frenchman, “I didn’t know you cared so much. I don’t want to sell Grey, and I won’t sell him if you help me with my work for the mill hands.”

Alick Duncan rose to his feet, his big, hearty laugh ringing out as Jacky seized his hand with the words, “There, Mr. Duncan, Andy won’t sell Grey.  He says so.  You heard him.”

The big foreman stooped, picked up the boy, and swung him on his shoulder as if he had been a kitten.

“All right, little Jack o’ Lantern, do as you like.  We mill hands will go on with Andy’s pay, only you help him all you can—­and maybe he’ll keep the old grey—­just for luck.”

“I know it’s for luck,” laughed Jacky.  “The grey knows so much.  Why, Mr. Duncan, he knows everything; he knows as much as the mill hands.”

“I dare say,” said the big foreman, dryly.  “If he didn’t he wouldn’t have even horse sense.”

“But why do you call me that—­’Jack o’ Lantern’?” asked the boy from his perch on the big man’s shoulder.

“Because I thought the name suited you,” smiled the foreman.  “I’ve often seen the little Jack o’ Lantern hovering above the marshes and swales, a dancing, pretty light, moving about to warn woodsmen of danger spots, just as your lantern, Jacky, warns the rivermen of that nasty ‘wildcat’ place in the river.”