“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.