“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.”

CHAPTER VIII

INJUN TALKS

That night, in the bunk house, Bill Jordan was holding forth to a select few—­Jim Walker, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and Shorty Palmer; all old friends and true, who could dispute and quarrel with one another without the serious results that would have attended such action on the part of strangers.

“Talkin’ ’bout Injuns,” said Bill, “all I don’t know ’bout ’em you c’d write on a hummin’-bird’s finger-nail.”

“Hummin’-birds don’t have no finger-nails,” corrected Shorty Palmer.

“Sure they don’t,” allowed Bill.  “But you c’d write it on one if they did.”

“They has claws,” persisted Shorty.  “B’sides, no hummin’-bird ain’t goin’ t’ stay still long enough for you to write on his claw.”

“I know that, too,” said Bill.  “That thing I was sayin’ is what’s called a figger o’ speech.  Same as ‘independent as a hog on ice,’ or ’dead as a door nail.’  Ev’body knows them things ain’t independent or dead.  It’s just a fancy way o’ expressin’ yourself.  Can’t you give a feller credit for no ’magination?”

“Oh, you got ’magination all right,” Shorty agreed.  “You ain’t in no ways hampered by facts.  But, anyway, we wasn’t talkin’ ’bout Injuns.”

“No, but we was goin’ to,” retorted Bill, “for I was about t’ d’rect th’ conversation in them channels when you makes them ign’rant interruptions.”

“Oh, go on an’ talk, Bill,” Jim Walker broke in.  “Don’t pertend that Shorty, nor th’ whole United States Army, c’d stop you if you wanted t’ chin.”