Bruvver Jims Baby | Page 8

ways of looking rough and
unkempt are infinite. There were tall and short who were rough,
bearded and shaved who were rougher, and washed and unwashed who
were roughest. And there were still many denizens of Borealis not then
on exhibition.
Webber, the blacksmith; Lufkins, the teamster; Bone, the "barkeep";
Dunn, the carpenter, and Field, who had first discovered precious ore at
Borealis, and sold out his claims for a gold watch and chain--which
subsequently proved to be brass--all these and many another shining
light of the camp could be counted in the modest assemblage gathered
together to have a look at the "kid" just reported by Keno.
Surprise had been laid on double, in the town, by the news of what had
occurred. In the first place, it was almost incredible that old "If-only"
Jim had actually made his long-threatened pilgrimage to fetch his
promised pup, but to have him back here, not only with the dog in
question, but also with a tiny youngster found at the edge of the
wilderness, was far too much to comprehend.
In a single bound, old Jim had been elevated to a starry firmament of

importance, from wellnigh the lowest position of insignificance in the
camp, attained by his general worthlessness and shiftlessness--of mind
and demeanor--which qualities had passed into a proverb of the place.
Procrastination, like a cuckoo, had made its nest in his pockets, where
the hands of Jim would hatch its progeny. Labor and he abhorred each
other mightily. He had never been known to strike a lick of work till
larder and stomach were both of them empty and credit had taken to the
hills. He drawled in his speech till the opening parts of the good
resolutions he frequently uttered were old and forgotten before the
remainders were spoken. He loitered in his walk, said the boys, till he
clean forgot whether he was going up hill or down. "Hurry," he had
always said, by way of a motto, "is an awful waste of time that a feller
could go easy in."
Yet in his shambling, easy-going way, old Jim had drifted into nearly
every heart in the camp. His townsmen knew he had once had a good
education, for outcroppings thereof jutted from his personality even as
his cheek-bones jutted out of his russet old countenance.
Not by any means consenting to permit old Jim to understand how
astonishment was oozing from their every pore, the men brought forth
by Keno's news could not, however, entirely mask their incredulity and
interest. As Jim came deliberately down the trail, with the pale little
foundling on his arm, he was greeted with every possible term of
familiarity, to all of which he drawled a response in kind.
Not a few in the group of citizens pulled off their hats at the nearer
approach of the child, then somewhat sheepishly put them on again.
With stoical resolutions almost immediately upset, they gathered
closely in about the miner and his tiny companion, crowding the
red-headed Keno away from his place of honor next to the child.
The quaint little pilgrim, in his old, fur cap and long, "man's" trousers,
looked at the men in a grave way of doubt and questioning.
"It's a sure enough kid, all the same," said one of the men, as if he had
previously entertained some doubts of the matter. "And ain't he white!"

"Of course a white kid's white," answered the barkeep, scornfully.
"Awful cute little shaver," said another. "By cracky, Jim, you must
have had him up yer sleeve for a week! He don't look more'n about one
week old."
"Aw, listen to the man afraid to know anything about anything!" broke
in the blacksmith. "One week! He's four or five months, or I'm a
woodchuck."
"You kin tell by his teeth," suggested a leathery individual, stroking his
bony jaw knowingly. "I used to be up on the game myself, but I'm a
little out of practice jest at present."
"Shut up, you scare him, Shaky," admonished the teamster. "He's a
pretty little chipmunk. Jim, wherever did you git him?"
Jim explained every detail of his trip to fetch the pup, stretching out his
story of finding the child and bringing him hither, with pride in every
item of his wonderful performance. His audience listened with
profound attention, broken only by an occasional exclamation.
"Old If-only Jim! Old son-of-a-sea-cook!" repeated one, time after
time.
Meanwhile the silent little man himself was clinging to the miner's
flannel collar with all his baby strength. With shy little glances he
scanned the members of the group, and held the tighter to the one safe
anchorage in which he seemed to feel a confidence. A number of the
rough men furtively attempted a bit of coquetry, to win the