Only too glad of the daintier morsels thus
supplied for his ailing little guest, old Jim had made but feeble
protest when the things arrived, and now was preparing a meal from the
nicest of the packages.
Little Skeezucks, however, waked in a mood of lethargy not to be
fathomed by mere affection. Not only did he turn away at the mere
suggestion of eating, but he feebly hid his face and gave a little moan.
"He ain't no better," Jim announced, putting down a breakfast-dish with
its cargo quite untasted. "I wish we had a little bit of medicine."
"What kind?" said the worried Keno.
"It wouldn't make much difference," answered the miner. "Anything is
medicine that a doctor prescribes, even if it's only sugar-and-water."
"But there ain't a doctor into camp," objected Keno, hauling at his
sleeves. "And the one they had in Bullionville has went away, and he
was fifty miles from here."
"I know," said Jim.
"You don't think he's sick?" inquired Keno, anxiously.
Jim looked long at his tiny foundling dressed in the nightie that came
below his feet. A dull, heavy look was in the little fellow's eyes,
half closed and listless.
"He ain't no better," the miner repeated. "I don't know what to do."
Keno hesitated, coughed once or twice, and stirred the fire fiercely
before he spoke again.
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