"At least, he never thought he was smart, abscondin' with a
little free sample of a brain."
"What kind of a mongrel is he, anyway?" inquired Bone.
"Thorough-breed," replied old Jim. "There ain't nothing in him but
dog."
The blacksmith was still somewhat longingly regarding the pale little
man who continued to cling to the miner's collar. "What's his name?"
said he.
"Tintoretto," answered Jim, still on the subject of his yellowish pup.
"Tintoretto?" said the company, and they variously attacked the
appropriateness of any such a "handle."
"What fer did you ever call him that?" asked Bone.
"Wal, I thought he deserved it," Jim confessed.
"Poor little kid--that's all I've got to say," replied the
compassionate blacksmith.
"That ain't the kid's name," corrected Jim, with alacrity. "That's
what I call the pup."
"That's worse," said Field. "For he's a dumb critter and can't say
nothing back."
"But what's the little youngster's name?" inquired the smith, once
again.
"Yes, what's the little shaver's name?" echoed the teamster. "If it's
as long as the pup's, why, give us only a mile or two at first, and the
rest to-morrow."
"I was goin' to name him 'Aborigineezer,'" Jim admitted, somewhat
sheepishly.
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