"Maybe—maybe," answered Keno, with a sort of acquiescence that is deadlier than an out-and-out denial. "But—I wouldn't want to see you disappointed, Jim—I wouldn't want to see it."
"Wal, you come on, that's all," said Jim. "If it ain't so—I want to know it early in the day!"
"But—what can I do?" still objected Keno. "Wouldn't you rather I'd stay home and git the breakfast?"
"We don't want any breakfast if she 'ain't got the little boy. You come on!"
Keno came; so did Tintoretto. The three went down the slope as the sun looked over the rim of the mountains. The chill and crispness of the air seemed a part of those early rays of light.
In sight of the home of Doc and Miss Dennihan, they paused and stepped behind a fence, for the door of the neat little house was open and the lady herself was sweeping off the steps, with the briskness inseparable from her character.
She presently disappeared, but the door, to Jim's relief, was left standing open. He proceeded boldly on his course.
"Now, I'll stay outside and hold the pup," said Keno.
"If anything goes wrong, you let the pup go loose," instructed Jim.
"He might distract her attention."
Thereupon he went in at the creaking little garden gate, and, leaving it open, knocked on the door and entered the house. He had hardly more than come within the room when Miss Doc appeared from her kitchen.