This dark little house was built in the brush, quite up on the hill above the town, and not far away from a shallow ravine where a trickle of water from a spring had encouraged a straggling growth of willows, alders, and scrub.  Some four or five acres of hill-side about the place constituted the “Babylonian Glory” mining-claim, which Jim accounted his, and which had seen about as much of his labor as might be developed by digging for gold in a barrel.

“Nobody home,” said the owner to his dog, as he came to the door and shouldered it open.  “Wal, all the more for us.”

That any one might have been at home in the place was accounted for simply by the fact that certain worthies, playing in and out of luck, as the wheel of fate might turn them down or up, sometimes lived with Jim for a month at a time, and sometimes left him in solitude for weeks.  One such transient partner he had left at the cabin when he started off to get the pup now tagging at his heels.  This house-partner, having departed, might and might not return, either now, a week from now, or ever.

The miner felt his way across the one big room which the shack afforded, and came to a series of bunks, built like a pantry against the wall.  Into one of these he rolled his tiny foundling, after which he lighted a candle that stood in a bottle, and revealed the smoky interior of the place.

Three more of the bunks were built in the eastern end of the room; a fireplace occupied a portion of the wall against the hill; a table stood in the centre of the floor, and a number of mining tools littered a corner.  Cooking utensils were strewn on the table liberally, while others hung against the wall or depended from hooks in the chimney.  This was practically all there was, but the place was home.

Tintoretto, beholding his master preparing a fire to heat up some food, delved at once into everything and every place where a wet little nose could be thrust.  Having snorted in the dusty corners, he trotted to the bench whereon the water-bucket stood, and, standing on his hind legs, gratefully lapped up a drink from the pail.  His thirst appeased, he clambered ambitiously into one of the bunks, discovered a nice pair of boots, and, dragging one out on the floor, proceeded to carry it under the table and to chew it as heartily as possible.

There was presently savory smoke, sufficient for an army, in the place, while sounds of things sizzling made music for the hungry.  The miner laid bare a section of the table, which he set with cups, plates, and iron tools for eating.  He then dished up two huge supplies of steaming beans and bacon, two monster cups of coffee, black as tar, and cut a giant pile of dun-colored bread.

“Aborigineezer,” he said, “the banquet waits.”

Thereupon he fetched his weary little guest to the board and attempted to seat him on a stool.  The tiny man tried to open his eyes, but the effort failed.  Had he been awake and sitting erect on the seat provided for his use, his head could hardly have come to the level of the supper.