“No use of our being hypocrites to the little chap. I reckon he’s seen worse things than the inside of a saloon. Come along, laddybuck.”
They lined up and partook. The agent told the story of the waif. “And we started him off with fifty, Mac,” he said to the saloon-keeper. “Suppose you break away from some of your ill-gotten gains in the good cause.”
The saloon-keeper opened his cash drawer without words and slid over a five-dollar bill. He seemed very glad to part with it.
“Confound it! Now we’re upsticks again,” said the agent. “Tell you what let’s do. Here’s ten of us. Each man put up a two, and we’ll shake the dice to see who gives it to the kid—winner to set ’em up. That’ll make seventy-five—a very respectable figure.”
They played a new interesting dice-game, in which the figure of a pig drawn in chalk upon the bar furnished the “lay-out.” It is a game which increases in interest to the last throw. They stuck the saloon-keeper, and were gleeful.
“We ought to name the boy,” said Felton, under the inspiration of the second refreshment. “My name’s Jim, and I want something else to call him by. I’ll make him a present of my last name.”
“Gad, that’s so!” replied the agent.
“Call him Chescheela Jim,” put in a cow-man. “That’s Injun for ‘little Jim.’ ‘Ches’ ain’t a bad nickname.”
