s getting it.

"Thank you, boy. What's your name?"

"Name--Jose," said the man answering for him. He pronounced it "Ho-say,"
and Jim was pleased. Knowing that he might meet people who spoke
Spanish, in this trip west, the studious lad had brought a Spanish
grammar along with him on the train and had glanced into it whenever he
had a chance. Of course, he could not speak it himself, nor understand
it well, nor was the dialect here in use very much like the correct
language of the grammar.

"Jose, where is this place?"

The child stared. Then suddenly went out of doors and returned with a
baby lamb in his arms. He plumped this down upon Jim's breast and smiled
for the first time. The lamb was his latest, greatest treasure and, in
his childish sympathy, he offered it to the "hurted man." With his good
arm, Jim made the little animal more comfortable, while Jose vanished
without again. This time he returned with a fine basket of Indian
workmanship, and this was filled in part by glittering stones and in
part by flowers. All these he deposited on the bed beside the lamb, and
folded his arms behind him in profound satisfaction. He had done his
very best. He had given the sick one all his things. If that didn't cure
him it would be no further business of Jose's.

The man of the house had now seated himself beside the stove. He placed
an earthen pan beside him on the clay floor and laid a bundle of rushes
beside it. Also, he took down from a peg in the wall an unfinished
basket, and reseating himself, proceeded to weave upon it. He used only
the finest of splits, torn from the reeds, almost like thread in their
delicacy and he worked very slowly. From time to time he held the basket
from him, studying its appearance with half-closed eyes, as an artist
studies a picture. Frequently, he lifted the coffee pot to his lips and
drank from its spout.

Jim watched him in silent admiration of his deftness with the weaving
and in disgust at his use of the coffee pot--thinking he would want no
more draughts from it himself. All the time his mind grew clearer and he
began to form plans for telling Dorothy where he was--though he didn't
know that, himself; but, at least, of letting her know he was alive. She
would have to guess at the rest and she would surely trust him to come
back when he could.

When the weaver looked up again Jim beckoned him to approach. Rather
reluctantly, he did so. For his own part he was getting tired of th