«How's that last boy, Oh My? Showing up?»

«Him pretty good boy, I think,» was the answer. «Him young boy.

Everything new. Pretty slow. All the same bime by him show up good.»

«Why? What makes you think so?»

«I call him three, four morning now. Him sleep like baby. Him wake up smiling just like you. That very good.»

«Do I wake up smiling?» Forrest queried.

Oh My nodded his head violently.

«Many times, many years, I call you. Always your eyes open, your eyes smile, your mouth smile, your face smile, you smile all over, just like that, right away quick. That very good. A man wake up that way got plenty good sense. I know. This new boy like that. Bime by, pretty soon, he make fine boy. You see. His name Chow Gam. What name you call him this place?»

Dick Forrest meditated.

«What names have we already?» he asked.

«Oh Joy, Ah Well, Ah Me, and me; I am Oh My,» the Chinese rattled off.

«Oh Joy him say call new boy—»

He hesitated and stared at his master with a challenging glint of eye.

Forrest nodded.

«Oh Joy him say call new boy 'Oh Hell.'»

«Oh ho!» Forrest laughed in appreciation. «Oh Joy is a josher. A good name, but it won't do. There is the Missus. We've got to think another name.»

«Oh Ho, that very good name.»

Forrest's exclamation was still ringing in his consciousness so that he recognized the source of Oh My's inspiration.

«Very well. The boy's name is Oh Ho.»

Oh My lowered his head, ebbed swiftly through the French windows, and as swiftly returned with the rest of Forrest's clothes-gear, helping him into undershirt and shirt, tossing a tie around his neck for him to knot, and, kneeling, putting on his leggings and spurs. A Baden Powell hat and a quirt completed his appareling—the quirt, Indian– braided of rawhide, with ten ounces of lead braided into the butt that hung from his wrist on a loop of leather.