ompliments.

"He's mebbe all right, but he's homely as Aunt Marier comin' through
the thrashin'-machine," decided the teamster.

The carpenter added: "He's so all-fired awkward he can't keep step with
hisself."

"Wal, he ain't so rank in his judgment as some I could indicate,"
drawled Jim, prepared to defend both pup and foundling to the last
extent. "At least, he never thought he was smart, abscondin' with a
little free sample of a brain."

"What kind of a mongrel is he, anyway?" inquired Bone.

"Thorough-breed," replied old Jim. "There ain't nothing in him but
dog."

The blacksmith was still somewhat longingly regarding the pale little
man who continued to cling to the miner's collar. "What's his name?"
said he.

"Tintoretto," answered Jim, still on the subject of his yellowish pup.

"Tintoretto?" said the company, and they variously attacked the
appropriateness of any such a "handle."

"What fer did you ever call him that?" asked Bone.

"Wal, I thought he deserved it," Jim confessed.

"Poor little kid--that's all I've got to say," replied the
compassionate blacksmith.

"That ain't the kid's name," corrected Jim, with alacrity. "That's
what I call the pup."

"That's worse," said Field. "For he's a dumb critter and can't say
nothing back."

"But what's the little youngster's name?" inquired the smith, once
again.

"Yes, what's the little shaver's name?" echoed the teamster. "If it's
as long as the pup's, why, give us only a mile or two at first, and the
rest to-morrow."

"I was goin' to name him 'Aborigineezer,'" Jim admitted, somewhat
sheepishly. "But he ain't no Piute Injun, so I can't."

"Hard-hearted ole sea-serpent!" ejaculated Field. "No wonder he looks
like cryin'."

"Oh, he ain't goin' to cry," said the blacksmith, roughly patting the
frightened little pilgrim's cheek with his great, smutty hand. "What's
he got to cry about, now he's here in Borealis?"

"Well, leave him cry, if he wants to," said the fat little Keno. "I
'ain't heard a baby cry fer six or seven years."

"Go off in a corner and cry in your pocket, and leave it come out as
you want it," suggested Bone. "Jim, you said the little feller kin
talk?"

"Like a greasy dictionary," said Jim, proudly.

"Well, start him off on somethin' stirrin'."

"You can't start a little youngster off a-talkin' when you want to, any
more than you can start a turtle runnin' to a fire," drawled Jim,
sagely.

"Then, kin he walk?