congregation of the town hastening to the scene. Still, old Jim, the
faithful Keno, little Skeezucks, and Tintoretto failed to appear. A
deputation was therefore sent up the hill, where Jim was found
informing his household that if only he had the celerity of action he
would certainly make a Sunday suit of clothing for the tiny little man.
For himself, he had washed and re-turned his shirt, combed his hair,
and put on a better pair of boots, which the pup had been chewing to
occupy his leisure time.

The small but impressive procession came slowly down the trail at last,
Jim in the lead, with the grave little foundling on his arm.

"Boys," said he, as at last he entered the dingy shop and sat his
quaint bit of a man on the anvil, over which he had thoughtfully thrown
his coat--"boys, if only I'd had about fifteen minutes more of time I'd
have thought up all the tricks you ever saw in a church."

The men filed in, awkwardly taking off their hats, and began to seat
themselves as best they could, on anything they found available.
Webber, the smith, went stoutly at his bellows, and blew up a fire that
flamed two feet above the forge, fountaining fiercely with sparks of
the iron in the coal, and tossing a ruddy light to the darkest corners
of the place. The incense of labor--that homely fragrance of the
smithy all over the world--spread fresh and new to the very door
itself. Old Jim edged closer to the anvil and placed his hand on the
somewhat frightened little foundling, sitting there so gravely, and
clasping his doll in fondness to his heart.

Outside, it was noted, Field had halted the red-headed Keno for a
moment's whispered conversation. Keno nodded knowingly. Then he came