Jim had told him of Christmas by the hour--all the beauty of the story,
so old, so appealing to the race of man, who yearns towards everything
affording a brightness of hope and a faith in anything human.
"What would little Skeezucks like for his Christmas?" the man inquired,
for the twentieth time.
The little fellow pressed closer against him, in baby shyness and
slowly answered:
"Bruv-ver--Jim."
The miner clasped him tenderly against his heart. Yet he had but
scanty intimation of the all the tiny pilgrim meant.
He sat with him throughout that day, however, as he had so many of
these fleeting days. The larder was neglected; the money contributed
at "church" had gone at once, to score against a bill at the store, as
large as the cabin itself, and only the labors of Keno, chopping brush
for fuel, kept the home supplied even with a fire. Jim had been born
beneath the weight of some star too slow to move along.
When Keno came back to the cabin from his work in the brush it was well
along in the afternoon. Jim decided to go below and stock up the
pantry with food. On arriving at the store, however, he met a new
manner of reception.
The gambler, Parky, was in charge, as a recent purchaser of the whole
concern.
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