"'S very important," Bill continued, "an' I think your father'd consider me justified in takin' you away fr'm your lessons." Having studied this matter all out beforehand, Bill was using larger words than usual. "I got a letter for t' be delivered t' Dan Brayton, up at th' T Up and Down Ranch, 'bout some business o' your father's. Really, I ought t' go m'self, an' see Dan pussonally, but I ain't got time. Can't spare any o' th' men, 'count o' th' roundup's comin' on. Don't see nothin' t' do, except t' make you th' messenger."

Whitey was delighted. "Where is the T Up and Down?" he asked.

"'Bout a hunderd an' fifteen miles no'thwest o' here, t'other side o' Zumbro Creek," Bill answered.

"Good!" cried Whitey. "I'll take Injun, and-"

"Wouldn't do that," Bill objected. "Dan hates Injuns, an' he'd sure be rambunctious 'bout this one."

"All right," Whitey agreed, rather reluctantly. "If I start early enough, Monty and I ought to make it some time to-morrow night."

If Whitey had been noticing Bill's face at that moment, he would have seen a rather peculiar smile cross it, but he wasn't. Nor did he suspect anything the next morning, when he met Bill at the corral before dawn.

"That Monty hoss o' yours seems sort o' lame, this mornin'," said Bill. "Reck'n one o' th' other cayuses must 'a' kicked him, or somep'n. Dunno as he c'd stand th' trip."

And, sure enough, Monty limped slightly as he moved about the corral. Whitey did not know that a hair tied around a horse's leg, just above the hock, will make the animal limp, and will not be noticeable, nor that as a part of Bill's scheme Monty had been so treated. So Whitey was worried about his pony, but Bill assured him that Monty would probably be all right in a day or so-when it was too late.

"Pshaw, I'll have to ride a strange horse!" Whitey said dejectedly.

"I bin thinkin'," said Bill, "what with our bein' kinda short on stock, just now, an' th' boys needin' all their strings for th' round-up, an' everythin', it might be a good scheme for you t' go in th' stage. Be sort of a change for you. You c'd ride as far as Cal Smith's ranch, an' he'd lend you a hoss t' take you on t' th' T Up and Down."

Again the unsuspecting Whitey was delighted, as every Western boy was, in those days, to ride on the old-fashioned but swift-moving stage-coaches that were still the main means of communication between many places in that sparsely settled country.

At six o'clock Whitey was waiting in the road, with Bill, and when the coach appeared, and was halted, was hoisted up to a seat beside the driver; a seat of honor that did not happen to be occupied that trip. Messenger boys and telephones were unknown on the Frontier at that time. Even the telegraph lines were limited to the course of the big railroad that pointed its nose from St. Paul to the Pacific. So Whitey, with the important letter sewed inside his shirt, thereby became the first messenger boy known to the history of the West.

And he surely enjoyed seeing the driver wield his long whip, and capably handle the six reins that controlled the six spirited horses. And going down grade Whitey would have to put his arm around the driver's middle, because his legs were not quite long enough to reach the dashboard, and if the body of that old-fashioned stage-coach had hit him in the middle of the back, Whitey would have beaten the horses down the hill.

Everything went well for ninety miles, and at a certain trail the driver pulled up and said, "Well, son, here's where you have t' wear out your moccasins. There's your trail, bearing off t' th' right. Follow it for twenty-five miles, an' you'll be where you want t' go."

"Twenty-five miles!" gasped Whitey. "Do you mean to say that I have to walk twenty-five miles?"

"Sure," said the driver. "If you keep goin' good an' lively th' rest o' th' day, you c'n hit th' Zumbro before dark, an' just one mile this side o' th' Zumbro is Cal Smith's ranch. He'll take care o' you overnight, an' you c'n go t' th' T Up and Down in th' mornin'."

"B-but I didn't know I had to walk," Whitey protested.

"Reck'n you do, unless you c'n ketch a jack-rabbit an' ride him," the driver answered.

"I thought the ranch was right on the line of the stage road," Whitey said weakly. "Bill Jordan didn't say anything about walking."

"Well, Bill's a funny cuss, an' mebbe he kept this for you as a sort o' s'prise," the driver allowed, with a grin. "Good-bye. Giddap!" And the coach whirled away, in a cloud of dust, leaving Whitey standing in the lonely road, looking off over the lonelier prairie.

But nothing was to be gained by that, and he started along the trail, which really was a little-used wagon track. And as he walked he thought about Bill Jordan, and his conclusions were none too pleasant. He did not suspect that this was part of a deep-laid plot of Bill's. Rather he thought that, as the driver had said, this was one of Bill's jokes, and he could fancy Bill and Jim Walker and Buck Higgins and the others chuckling over the trick, and Whitey planned how he would get even with Bill when he returned. He little guessed how long it would be before that return, and how many events would intervene to drive thoughts of revenge from his mind.

And Whitey trudged on and on, and the walking was very bad, for there had been a succession of heavy rains, almost cloud-bursts, that had made the road soggy. And for several miles the trail led through rocky hills, and there the walking was even worse, for the rains had washed the earth out of the trails, leaving a series of sharp stones that certainly were hard on moccasin-clad feet. And the harder the trail was, the harder became Whitey's opinion of Bill Jordan and his jokes.

Darkness comes late in that northern country, and it was dusk when Whitey had another unpleasant surprise, for he came to the Zumbro, and a sight met his eyes that would have made almost any grown-up stand back and look a lot. She wasn't a creek, she was a river; no, she wasn't a river, she was a rearing, roaring, raging torrent, owing to the rains and floods that had filled the banks to overflowing.

And this wasn't the worst of it. Where was Cal Smith's ranch, a mile this side of the Zumbro? The driver had told him about that, so it couldn't have been another of Bill Jordan's jokes. Whitey looked back, and saw a line of hills, and realized that the ranch lay behind them, and that he had passed it. And sorrowfully he retraced his steps.

They say that the last mile of a long walk is the worst, and it certainly proved so in this case, for it was dark when Whitey turned off into a side road and the lights of Cal Smith's ranch house met his view.

There may have been more welcome sights to Whitey than the yellow gleams of those window lights, but he could not remember them, as he limped toward the house. Even the sharp barking of a dog, that was stilled by a call from an opening door, sounded good to him. And when he was in the house, where he was welcomed by big, genial Cal Smith, and seated at a table in the kitchen, devouring ham and eggs and home-made bread and pie, and drinking hot coffee, provided by good-natured, motherly Mrs. Cal-why, it was almost worth the tramp to meet such a reception at the end of it.

And friendly and hospitable as were Mr. and Mrs. Cal, there were other and greater attractions in that household for Whitey. There were five young Smiths,-five boys, three older and two younger than, Whitey,-and not a girl in sight. In that company Whitey forgot all about being tired. A new boy, that knew stories, was meat and drink to them-and five boys, that knew stories that were new to Whitey, were meat and drink to him.

Their sleeping quarters were the garret, and while a lantern swung from a beam, and Mr. and Mrs. Cal were asleep, and the boys were supposed to be asleep, those kids just wrote and rewrote a history of the West that would make all the tenderfeet in the world stay at home, and forever hold down the population of the Frontier.

And the smallest boy, named Cal after his father, had a hard time keeping awake, but was bound to do it if it killed him; and the biggest boy, named Abe after Abraham Lincoln, probably knew more about wild animals than any boy in the world; and the smallest boy never had killed any animals, except a stray mole or two, that happened to get out in the daytime, by mistake, but he was goin' to-and-well, there was so much to be told, and it had to be told so fast, that no shorthand writer that ever lived could have put it all down.

But finally, no matter how interesting the company, sleep will come to healthy boys, and just before that time came, and could not be put off any longer, they happened to be talking about dreams. Abe said that if you would tie a rope around your neck, and tie it to a beam, just before you went to sleep, you would sure dream of a hanging. And, of course, Whitey had to try it.

He tied the rope around his neck, he tied the other end around a beam, and he went to sleep. There were six boys in that bed, and there was a whole lot of crowding, and Whitey was sleeping on the outside. And he didn't have to dream about any hanging, because he came so near the real thing. I don't have to tell you how it happened. Bill Jordan's letter came mighty near not being delivered. However, all ended happily, and save for rubbing that part of his anatomy where he wore a collar after he was grown up, Whitey was all right.

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