The tiny mite of a foundling was not so well as when his friends had
left him on the previous afternoon.
He was up and dressed, sitting, in his grave little way, on the miner's
knee, weakly holding his crushed-looking doll, but his cold had
increased, his sweet baby face was paler, the sad, dumb look in his
eyes was deeper in its questioning, the breakfast that the fond old Jim
had prepared was quite untasted.
"He ain't agoin' to be right down sick, of course?" said the
blacksmith, come to report all the progress made. "Natchelly, we'd
better go on, gittin' ready fer the banquet? He'll be all right fer
to-morrow?"
"Oh yes," said Jim. "There never yet was a Christmas that wouldn't get
a little youngster well. He'll come to the tree, you bet. It's goin'
to be the happiest time he ever had."
Outside, the red-headed Keno was chopping at the brush. The weather
was cold and windy, the sky gray and forbidding. When the smith had
gone, old Jim, little Skeezucks, and the pup were alone. Tintoretto,
the joyous, was prancing about with a boot in his jaws. He stumbled
constantly over its bulk, and growled anew at every interference with
his locomotion.
"Does little pardner like the pup?" said Jim, patting the sick little
man on the back with his clumsy but comforting hand.
Pages:
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128