"You're sure one of the movin' spirits of Borealis."
"No, I don't think I'll start the little feller off with the drinkin'
example," replied the miller. "You'll often notice that the men who
git the name of bein' movin' spirits is them that move a good deal of
whiskey into their interior department. I reckon we'll mosey home the
way we are."
"I guess I'll join you up above," said the fat little Keno, pulling
stoutly at his sleeves. "You'll need me, anyway, to cut some brush fer
the fire."
With tiny Skeezucks gravely looking backward at the group of men all
waving their hats in a rough farewell, old Jim started proudly up the
trail that led to the Babylonian Glory claim, with Tintoretto romping
awkwardly at his heels.
Suddenly, Webber, the blacksmith, left the groups and ran quickly after
them up the slope.
"Say, Jim," he said. "I thought, perhaps, if you reckoned little
Skeezucks ought to bunk down here in town--why--I wouldn't mind if you
fetched him over to the house. There's plenty of room."
"Wal, not to-day I won't," said Jim. "But thank you, Webber, all the
same."
"All right, but if you change your mind it won't be no trouble at all,"
and, not a little disappointed, the smith waved once more to the little
pilgrim on the miner's arm and went back down the hill.
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