Rough and untaught, his
only skill was shown by the dexterity with which he manipulated the cards
that secured to him his livelihood. Then, as now, he was widely known, but
in those days his title was "Gambler Jim."
It was during a long, tiresome trip across the Rockies that a clergyman and
his wife, having undressed their little boy and tucked him snugly into his
berth, repaired to the observation-car in order to watch the November
heavens.
An hour passed swiftly; then suddenly a rough-looking fellow made his way
toward the group of which the clergyman was one.
"Anybody here got a kid what's dressed in a red nightgown and sings like a
bird?" he demanded, awkwardly.
The father and mother sprang excitedly to their feet, gasping in fear. The
man nodded reassuringly.
"The' ain't nothing the matter of him," he said, with yet deeper
embarrassment. "The matter's with--_us_. You're a parson, ain't you? The
kid, he's been singin' to us--an' talkin'. If you don't mind, we'd take it
mighty good of you to come with me. Not you, ma'am. The kid's all safe, an'
the parson'll bring him back in a little while.
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