As Jim came deliberately down the trail, with the pale
little foundling on his arm, he was greeted with every possible term of
familiarity, to all of which he drawled a response in kind.
Not a few in the group of citizens pulled off their hats at the nearer
approach of the child, then somewhat sheepishly put them on again.
With stoical resolutions almost immediately upset, they gathered
closely in about the miner and his tiny companion, crowding the
red-headed Keno away from his place of honor next to the child.
The quaint little pilgrim, in his old, fur cap and long, "man's"
trousers, looked at the men in a grave way of doubt and questioning.
"It's a sure enough kid, all the same," said one of the men, as if he
had previously entertained some doubts of the matter. "And ain't he
white!"
"Of course a white kid's white," answered the barkeep, scornfully.
"Awful cute little shaver," said another. "By cracky, Jim, you must
have had him up yer sleeve for a week! He don't look more'n about one
week old."
"Aw, listen to the man afraid to know anything about anything!" broke
in the blacksmith. "One week! He's four or five months, or I'm a
woodchuck."
"You kin tell by his teeth," suggested a leathery individual, stroking
his bony jaw knowingly.
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