"But he ain't no Piute Injun, so I can't."
"Hard-hearted ole sea-serpent!" ejaculated Field. "No wonder he looks
like cryin'."
"Oh, he ain't goin' to cry," said the blacksmith, roughly patting the
frightened little pilgrim's cheek with his great, smutty hand. "What's
he got to cry about, now he's here in Borealis?"
"Well, leave him cry, if he wants to," said the fat little Keno. "I
'ain't heard a baby cry fer six or seven years."
"Go off in a corner and cry in your pocket, and leave it come out as
you want it," suggested Bone. "Jim, you said the little feller kin
talk?"
"Like a greasy dictionary," said Jim, proudly.
"Well, start him off on somethin' stirrin'."
"You can't start a little youngster off a-talkin' when you want to, any
more than you can start a turtle runnin' to a fire," drawled Jim,
sagely.
"Then, kin he walk?" insisted the bar-keep.
Jim said, "What do you s'pose he's wearin' pants for, if he couldn't?"
"Put him down and leave us see him, then."
"This ain't no place for a child to be walkin' 'round loose," objected
the gray old miner. "He'll walk some other time."
"Aw, put him down," coaxed the smith. "We'd like to see a little
feller walk. There's never bin no such a sight in Borealis.
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