"Pik-k?" said Bud, a mitten over one eye.
"Pik-k?" said the baby, spreading his fat hand again and
twinkling at Bud between his fingers. But immediately afterwards
it gave a little, piteous whimper. "Take--Uvin Chal!" it
beseeched Bud with voice and starlike blue eyes together. "Take!"
There was that in the baby's tone, in the unbaby-like
insistence of its bright eyes, which compelled obedience. Bud had
never taken a baby of that age in his arms. He was always in fear
of dropping it, or crushing it with his man's strength, or
something. He liked them--at a safe distance. He would chuck
one under the chin, or feel diffidently the soft little cheek,
but a closer familiarity scared him. Yet when this baby wriggled
its other arm loose and demanded him to take, Bud reached out and
grasped its plump little red-sweatered body firmly under the
armpits and drew it forth, squirming with eagerness.
"Well, I'll tell the world I don't blame yuh for wanting to git
outa that hog's nest," said Bud, answering the baby's gleeful
chuckle.
Freed from his detaining grip on her shoulder, the squaw ducked
unexpectedly and scuttled away down the trail as fast as her old
legs would carry her; which was surprisingly speedy for one of
her bulk.
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