“I have been studying over this matter,” answered McLean.  “I am not so sure but that a man no older than you and similar in every way could do this work very well, if he were not a coward, and had it in him to be trustworthy and industrious.”

Freckles came forward a step.

“If you will give me a job where I can earn me food, clothes, and a place to sleep,” he said, “if I can have a Boss to work for like other men, and a place I feel I’ve a right to, I will do precisely what you tell me or die trying.”

He spoke so convincingly that McLean believed, although in his heart he knew that to employ a stranger would be wretched business for a man with the interests he had involved.

“Very well,” the Boss found himself answering, “I will enter you on my pay rolls.  We’ll have supper, and then I will provide you with clean clothing, wading-boots, the wire-mending apparatus, and a revolver.  The first thing in the morning, I will take you the length of the trail myself and explain fully what I want done.  All I ask of you is to come to me at once at the south camp and tell me as a man if you find this job too hard for you.  It will not surprise me.  It is work that few men would perform faithfully.  What name shall I put down?”

Freckles’ gaze never left McLean’s face, and the Boss saw the swift spasm of pain that swept his lonely, sensitive features.

“I haven’t any name,” he said stubbornly, “no more than one somebody clapped on to me when they put me on the Home books, with not the thought or care they’d name a house cat.  I’ve seen how they enter those poor little abandoned devils often enough to know.  What they called me is no more my name than it is yours.  I don’t know what mine is, and I never will; but I am going to be your man and do your work, and I’ll be glad to answer to any name you choose to call me.  Won’t you please be giving me a name, Mr. McLean?”

The Boss wheeled abruptly and began stacking his books.  What he was thinking was probably what any other gentleman would have thought in the circumstances.  With his eyes still downcast, and in a voice harsh with huskiness, he spoke.

“I will tell you what we will do, my lad,” he said.  “My father was my ideal man, and I loved him better than any other I have ever known.  He went out five years ago, but that he would have been proud to leave you his name I firmly believe.  If I give to you the name of my nearest kin and the man I loved best—­will that do?”

Freckles’ rigid attitude relaxed suddenly.  His head dropped, and big tears splashed on the soiled calico shirt.  McLean was not surprised at the silence, for he found that talking came none too easily just then.

“All right,” he said.  “I will write it on the roll—­James Ross McLean.”

“Thank you mightily,” said Freckles.  “That makes me feel almost as if I belonged, already.”

“You do,” said McLean.  “Until someone armed with every right comes to claim you, you are mine.  Now, come and take a bath, have some supper, and go to bed.”