The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture of Johnny’s deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker, hastened to assure him that Johnny was better and that a “little fun might ’liven him up.”  Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying, “I’m ready.  Lead the way, Old Man:  here goes,” himself led the way with a leap, a characteristic howl, and darted out into the night.  As he passed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from the hearth.  The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closely following and elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietor of Thompson’s grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the room was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark.  In the first gust of wind their temporary torches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flitting in the gloom like drunken will-o’-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.  Their way led up Pine-Tree Canyon, at the head of which a broad, low, bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountain-side.  It was the home of the Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked when he worked at all.  Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicate deference to their host, who came up panting in the rear.

“P’r’aps ye’d better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go in and see thet things is all right,” said the Old Man, with an indifference he was far from feeling.  The suggestion was graciously accepted, the door opened and closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their backs against the wall and cowering under the eaves, waited and listened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the dripping of water from the eaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestling boughs above them.  Then the men became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and suspicion passed from the one to the other.  “Reckon she’s caved in his head the first lick!” “Decoyed him inter the tunnel and barred him up, likely.”  “Got him down and sittin’ on him.”  “Prob’ly bilin suthin to heave on us:  stand clear the door, boys!” For just then the latch clicked, the door slowly opened, and a voice said, “Come in out o’ the wet.”

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife.  It was the voice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternatural hoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of premature self-assertion can give.  It was the face of a small boy that looked up at theirs,—­a face that might have been pretty and even refined but that it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experience from without.  He had a blanket around his shoulders and had evidently just risen from his bed.  “Come in,” he repeated, “and don’t make no noise.  The Old Man’s in there talking to mar,” he continued, pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from which the Old Man’s voice came in deprecating accents.  “Let me be,” he added, querulously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, and was affecting to toss him into the fire, “let go o’ me, you d——­d old fool, d’ye hear?”