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."