Chapter 7 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS

Winter dragged coldly by, saddened by the lessons of John Big Moose, and brightened by an occasional hunting trip the boys took to the mountains. Sitting Bull did not seem to justify Whitey's first idea of him; that he was a magnet for excitement. Apparently Bull was satisfied to lie by the big living-room stove and sleep, except when the boys were going for game. Then he was eager to go.

"That there dog is like some folks," declared Bill Jordan. "He's powerful smart, but he's got a lot o' false idees 'bout himself. He ain't built for huntin' no more'n he is for runnin'. Why don't you take him along onc't, an' show him his mistake?"

So one day when the snow was light, and snowshoes were not needed, Injun and Whitey took Bull to the hills with them, and he was mad with delight. But all he did was to rush excitedly about and frighten the game, except once, when Whitey had a good but hard shot at a rabbit. Then Bull got between Whitey's legs and tripped him up, so that Whitey missed the shot.

The boys came back without any game, and apparently without convincing Bull that he was no hunter, for the next time they started he was just as eager to go as before.

"You thought he'd be cured of wanting to hunt, but he isn't," Whitey said reproachfully to Bill Jordan. "I don't think he's so smart, after all."

"Smart!" exclaimed Bill. "Why, he's just nachally too clever t' give up. He'd keep on tryin' till he did b'come a great hunter."

This was the usual satisfaction Whitey got out of Bill's arguments, but Bull went hunting no more.

One of the boys' other diversions had to do with a Chinaman named Wong Lee. Wong had succeeded the colored man, Slim, as cook at the Bar O. Slim had thought the Montana winter too severe for his miseries, and had gone South for good, and as Wong was a much better cook, no one felt sorry. Wong was placid, industrious, and very amiable, but beneath all this he must have had nerves, as I suppose Chinamen have, in common with other people.

He slept in a shack near the bunk house, and carried his industry so far that at night he would do all the washing that was to be done at the ranch house, for which he was paid extra. And here was the boys' chance. Injun was like most other boys when it came to mischief, and Whitey taught him the ancient game of tick-tack. In case you don't know it, I'll tell you how it's done.

To make a tick-tack get a long string, the longer the better; meaning the longer the safer. Then get a small fish-hook, and tie it to the end of your string, and tie a little stone about eight inches below your fish-hook. Select a dark night and the window of the person whose nerves you wish to disturb. Then sneak up, and fasten the fish-hook to one of the cross pieces of the window. Then go to the end of your line, and hide behind a wagon or a post. Pull your string, and "tick-tack" goes the stone on the window.

Wong Lee took it all in good part. He had been a boy once, himself, away off in China. And though Wong Lee never had played tick-tack, he probably had played other, Chinese boy games that Injun and Whitey would have been glad to know about, and Wong Lee was of such a disposition that he probably would have told them all about it, had he and the boys come to an understanding in the matter.

Instead of that, when that irritating little sound got on his Chinese nerves, Wong Lee would chase out in answer to the tick-tack, with his pigtail standing straight out in the wind, and pursue the boys from cover to cover. But he was game, and though he must have known who his tormentors were, he never reported them to Mr. Sherwood or to Bill Jordan.

And so, with one thing and another, the winter finally merged into spring, the soft rains melting away the snow, and giving the brown earth its chance to turn to tender green. And the swollen river was dotted with cakes of ice, among which the wild ducks dropped on their way South where, it was to be hoped, Slim had recovered from his miseries. And, as everybody knows, spring is a time that stirs boys and young men to unrest.

Perhaps you have noticed that when a fellow is just swelling up with a desire to do something big in the world, some trifling little thing comes along and knocks his ambition to splinters. When he is burning to kill a bear, he has to go on an errand for his mother-or something like that. Well, here was Whitey, with this spring feeling inciting him to great deeds, instead of making him lazy, as it does some people, and he went to the bunk house, followed by Sitting Bull. And there was Bill Jordan, with a letter in his hand, and something on his mind that he was dying to tell, but would rather die than not take his time about telling.

So Bill proceeded to peddle out his news, a bit at a time. "John Big Moose's goin' t' New York," was the first thing Bill said.

"Hooray!" Whitey cried.

"That's a fine way t' take th' news that you're goin' t' lose your dear teacher," Bill said reproachfully.

"Oh, of course I'm sorry that John is going away, but just think, there'll be no more lessons," Whitey answered.

"O' course," Bill said, and he looked at the boy in a very peculiar way.

But Whitey was too excited to notice the look. "What's John going for?" he asked.

"Your father's sent for him," answered Bill. Mr. Sherwood's business had again taken him to the big city. "An' now that this here gold mine's turnin' out so well," Bill continued, "an' John has some money, your father don't think it's fair t' keep him here teachin' a couple o' kids, when there's a big openin' for John right there in New York. An' it seems your father's got John some job as a chemist, though goin' into a drug store don't seem no big openin' t' me," Bill added thoughtfully.

"John isn't going to be a drug clerk," Whitey said, disgusted at Bill's ignorance. Whitey knew something of the big Indian's ambitions, having heard him discuss them with Mr. Sherwood. "Father probably has heard of an opening in some college, where John can become an instructor in chemistry."

Bill didn't know what that meant, either, but, not wishing to display his ignorance further, he said hastily, "Oh, that's diff'runt."

"When's John going?" demanded Whitey.

"Right off. Gonna drive him t' th' Junction to-day."

"Then no more lessons!" cried Whitey. "We'll be off for a hunting trip. I hear Moose Lake is just loaded with wild geese. Where's Injun? I must run and tell him."

"Wait a minit," cautioned Bill. "There's somethin' more. But first I must tell you how s'prised an' pained you make me by showin' this here dislike for learnin'."

"Surprised nothing," retorted Whitey. "Did you like it when you were a kid?"

"Nope," Bill confessed promptly. "But I'm dern sorry I didn't, now. You ain't got no idea what a handicap a feller's under what ain't got no eddication."

Whitey thought that what Bill had just said had given him a pretty good idea of the handicap, but he was wise enough to say nothing. Bill sat down and began to roll a cigarette.

"O' course, they's a lot of things in life that you can't learn outa books," Bill said. "But th' feller with th' book-learnin' generally has th' upper hand. There's one thing books never rightly teached no boy, an' that's lookin' ahead. I've often wondered why they didn't pay more 'tention t' that, but mostly a boy has t' learn it for himself. If he happens t' be born in the wilderness he just nach'lly has t' learn it, or I reckon he'd die."

Whitey fidgeted about, knowing that Bill was on one of his favorite topics, and wouldn't stop and tell the rest of his news until he was run down.

"Take Injun, f'r instance," Bill went on. "He's got a way o' figurin' out things that's wonderful, an' once in a while that way o' figurin' has saved his life. They's a highbrow word for that stuff, an' it's 'observation.' You just stick to that observation thing, kid, an' you'll find it a heap o' use t' you in this country."

Whitey knew of Injun's wonderful powers of observation which he had often shown on the trail, but could not help thinking that some of his red friend's cleverness was due to the lore inherited from his Indian ancestors, with their knowledge of the wild and of the habits of its beasts and birds. But Bill droned on while Whitey squirmed with impatience, and presently a welcome interruption came in the person of Shorty Palmer, who dashed into the room.

"Say, Bill," Shorty cried, "you got th' new time-table?"

"Sure," said Bill. "Last time I was to the Junction."

"Well, didn't you notice that th' Eastern Express leaves two hours earlier now?"

"No."

"It does, an' you'll have t' burn up th' prairie t' make it, an' Buck's got th' team all hitched, an' John Big Moose's just throwin' things into his trunk, an' you'd best get a move on."

"Jumpin' garter snakes!" cried Bill. "I never-"

"Oh," Whitey interrupted, "this observation thing is great stuff. And you just stick to it, and-"

"Shucks, I ain't got no time t' argue with kids," said Bill, and started for the door.

"Hold on," called Whitey. "What was that other news you were going to tell me?"

"Nothin'," said Bill, "'cept your father writes that now John Big Moose is goin', you an' Injun'll have t' go t' school at th' Forks," and he hurried from the bunk house, followed by Shorty.

Whitey sank down on a stool in despair. Gone were the dreams of adventure, of wild geese and bears just wakening from their winter's sleep. School! And with those few kids at the Forks!

"What's the use of anything?" Whitey muttered dejectedly.

And Bull, who at times was very sympathetic, looked up at him as much as to say, "Nothing."

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