"Little pard," he said, "you bet me and Tintoretto want you, right
here."
For his part, Tintoretto thumped the house and the step and the miner's
shins with the clumsy tail that was wagging his whole puppy body. Then
he clambered up and pushed his awkward paws in the little youngster's
face, and licked his ear and otherwise overwhelmed him with attentions,
till his master pushed him off. At this he growled and began to chew
the big, rough hand that suppressed his demonstrations.
In lieu of the ears of the rabbit to which he had clung throughout the
night, the silent little man on the miner's knee was holding now to
Jim's enormous fist, which he found conveniently supplied. He said
nothing more, and for quite a time old Jim was content to watch his
baby face.
"A white little kid--that nobody wants--but me and Tintoretto," he
mused, aloud, but to himself. "Where did you come from, pardner,
anyhow?"
The tiny foundling made no reply. He simply looked at the thin, kindly
face of his big protector in his quaint, baby way, but kept his solemn
little mouth peculiarly closed.
The miner tried a score of questions, tenderly, coaxingly, but never a
thing save that confident clinging to his hand and a nod or a shake of
the head resulted.
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