"Is that a doll?" inquired the teamster, regarding the grave little pilgrim's bundle of fur in curiosity. "How does he know it's a doll?" "He knows a good sight more than lots of older people," answered Jim. "And if only I've got the gumption I'll make him a whole slough of toys and things." "Well, leave us say good-bye to him 'fore you go," said the blacksmith. "Does he savvy shakin' hands?" He gave a little grip to the tiny hand that held the doll, and all the others did the same. Little Skeezucks looked at them gravely, his quaint baby face playing havoc with their rough hearts. "Softest little fingers I ever felt," said Webber. "I'd give twenty dollars if he'd laugh at me once." "Awful nice little shaver," said another. "I once had a mighty touchin' story happen to me, myself," said Keno, solemnly. "What was it?" inquired a sympathetic miner. "Couldn't bear to tell it--not this mornin'," said Keno. "Too touchin'." "Good-bye fer just at present, little Skeezucks," said Field, and, suddenly divesting himself of his brazen watch and chain, he offered it up as a gift, with spontaneous generosity. "Want it, Skeezucks?" said he. "Don't you want to hear it go?" The little man would relax neither his clutch on Jim's collar nor his hold of his doll, wherefore he had no hand with which to accept the present. "Do you think he runs a pawn-shop, Field?" said the teamster. "Put it back." The men all guffawed in their raucous way. "Keeps mighty good time, all the same," said Field, and he re-swung the chain, like a hammock, from the parted wings of his vest, and dropped the huskily ticking guardian of the minutes back to its place in his pocket. "Watches that don't keep perfect time," drawled Jim, "are scarcer than wimmin who tell their age on the square." "Better come over, Jim, and have a drink," suggested the barkeep. "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."