"Everything ready, Bill?" he said, bravely. "Yes, sir, everything ready." Jim called to Hal and Diana, who came from the house. He picked the boy up in his arms and a sudden terror overcame him. He must be alone a moment, to gain the courage necessary to face this last ordeal. "Take him, Bill," he said, "while I go and get his bag," and he went into the cabin. The foreman nodded. He held the boy high up in his strong arms while the men crowded around him. He must try to make it easy for the boss; there must be no tears. Diana and Sir John, from under the porch where they were standing, watched the men with the child, and during the years that followed it was a memory that often recurred to them. "Fellers," Bill began, as he enthroned Hal on his shoulder—"fellers, he’s agoin’ to Duchesne—savvy? Gee whiz, don’t I wish I was goin’ to see the soldiers and flags and drums and brass bands and everything! Ain’t he goin’ for a fine time!" The child answered with glee, "Sure," and the men’s laughter rang out at the child’s use of their own mode of expression. Carrying the bag, Jim came from the house. "It won’t hurt anybody to carry his belongings; it’s almost empty." Shorty sniffed as he peered into it. "’Tain’t very full." Then he threw into it the old jewel-box with the trinket which Jim had given him. Jim saw and understood. The men had come for their final leave-taking of the boy; they wished to prove that their animosity was over, that they recognized that misfortune had come to them through no fault of his. "Hold on, Shorty." Jim tried to prevent the little fellow from getting the valise, but Shorty took the bag out of his hand as he snapped: "That’s Hal’s trunk, ain’t it?" "Yes, but—" "It ain’t yourn." Ever aggressive, Shorty finished, "You don’t want to fight the outfit the day your boy’s agoin’ away." And he pushed Jim aside as he carried the valise over to Grouchy, who was holding up a villainous-looking jack-knife to the child. "Say, old man," the slow, lumbering ranchman labored, "you wanted this for a long time. I wouldn’t give it to you, ’cause I was afraid you might cut yourself, but I’ve been a-savin’ it for you. When you get bigger, you can make things with it." Grouchy threw the knife into the bag, while Shorty, deeply touched, muttered, "That’s the longest speech Grouchy ever pulled off." After all, the box with its trinket had been a gift to him; he must give something to the child that had been his very own. "Say," he began, "I’m in on this; he’s admired my saddle for a long time." But Jim protested, "Shorty, what on earth is he to do with it?" And Shorty answered, as he flung his saddle into the wagon. "I’ll bet they ’ain’t got nothin’ to touch it in England." Bill approvingly observed, "That’s right; he’s a cow-boy and needs a real saddle."