"They don't look worth no such a figger," said Miss Dennihan, as she
held them up and scanned them with a critical eye. "They're wantin' a
patch in the knee. It's lucky fer you I toted my bag. I kin always
match overhalls, new or faded."

Keno slyly ventured to put forth his head, but instantly drew it back
again.

Jim, in his bunk, was beginning to sweat. He held his little foundling
by the hand and piled up a barrier of blankets before them. That many
another of the male residents of Borealis had been honored by similar
visitations on the part of Miss Doc was quite the opposite of
reassuring. That the lady generally came as a matter of curiosity, and
remained in response to a passion for making things glisten with
cleanliness, he had heard from a score of her victims. He knew she was
here to get her eyes on the grave little chap he was cuddling from
sight, but he had no intention of sharing the tiny pilgrim with any one
whose attentions would, he deemed, afford a trial to the nerves.

"Seems to me the last time I saw old Doc his shirt needed stitchin' in
the sleeve," he said. "How about that, Keno?"

Keno was dumb as a clam.

"You never seen nuthin' of the sort," corrected Miss Doc, with
asperity, and, removing her bonnet, she sat down on a stool, Jim's
overalls in hand and her bag in her lap. "John's mended regular, all
but his hair, and if soap-suds and bear's-grease would patch his top he
wouldn't be bald another day."