He caught a cold, as tiny as
himself, but bore its miseries uncomplainingly. In fact, he had never
cried so much as once since his coming to the cabin; and neither had he
smiled.
In sheer concern old Jim went forth that cold and windy afternoon of
the day but four removed from Christmas, to make at least a show of
working on his claim. Keno, Skeezucks, and the pup remained behind,
the little red-headed man being busily engaged in some great culinary
mystery from which he said his lemon-pie for Christmas should evolve.
When presently Jim stood beside the meagre post-hole he had made once
upon a time, as a starter for a mining-shaft, he looked at it ruefully.
How horridly hard that rock appeared! What a wretched little scar it
was he had made with all that labor he remembered so vividly! What was
the good of digging here? Nothing!
Dragging his pick, he looked for a softer spot in which to sink the
steel. There were no softer spots. And the pick helve grew so
intensely cold! Jim dropped it to the ground, and with hands thrust
into his armpits, for the warmth afforded, he hunched himself dismally
and scanned the prospect with doleful eyes. Why couldn't the hill
break open, anyhow, and show whether anything worth the having were
contained in its bulk or not?
A last summer's mullen stock, beating incessantly in the wind, seemed
the only thing alive on all that vast outbulging of the earth.
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