It is needless to follow Whitey into this seat of learning.  If this were a record of the torments and horrors he underwent during his boyhood days, it might be well to describe this period at length.  But suffice it to say that Jennie Adams, the teacher, was a young woman who, if given a little time to think, could tell you, without using a paper or pencil, how much six pounds of butter would cost at twelve cents a pound.  Also, that the girl pupils, of whom there were four,—­those who rode the mules double,—­had a habit of tittering, also of leaning over close to each and making whispered remarks about Whitey.

A week of this did not add to Whitey’s thirst for knowledge, which was not very strong at best, and it was just a week from this first day that he was again riding toward the schoolhouse, and something happened.  It was another bright morning, and Whitey had reached a spot where the road branched up into the foothills to avoid a marsh, when he noticed signs of excitement in his pony, Monty.  These signs would have been stronger had the wind been blowing the other way, and had Monty’s nose made him aware of the exact danger that lurked near.  As it was, his ears, which were much keener than Whitey’s, caught sounds of some disturbing presence, and Whitey had difficulty in keeping him in the road.

At a sharp turn, Whitey and Monty were greeted by a roar that was deeper than that of any automobile horn you ever heard, a roar that had menace behind it, and that came from a large brown bear which had risen on its hind legs and was advancing into the road with both front paws extended wide, as though with the intent of embracing both Whitey and Monty.

[Illustration:  ADVANCING INTO THE ROAD WITH BOTH FRONT PAWS EXTENDED]

Monty did not wait for any guiding rein to turn him.  He wheeled on a space about as big as a cigar-box, and hit the trail for home, and for some time he and Whitey gave a fair imitation of a runaway train on a down grade.  All Whitey could do was to lie low on Monty’s neck, digging his moccasins into Monty’s ribs, for fear he would change his mind—­which he didn’t.

And neither Whitey nor Monty knew that that roar came from a mother bear, and that back of the bear was a small cub, with a round, funny little stomach, industriously combing the bushes for berries, and regarding life as one round of pleasure.  There was no need for them to know that.  Whitey had had experiences with bears, as you may remember.  If wireless had been invented, he might possibly have been willing to use it as a means of introduction, but in no way he could think of at the moment was he willing to meet a bear on its native heath.

That settled it.  No school that day.  Couldn’t expect a fellow to go to school when he had to run into bears on the trail.  What was an old bear doing near the ranch, anyhow?  Didn’t seem right.  When Monty had toned down his headlong trip away from that bear, or thought he was at a safe distance, Whitey found himself near the river, and idly turned Monty toward its banks.  Might as well take a little ride.  Fellow didn’t learn much at that school, anyway.  And so, after the ways of boys and men, Whitey made excuses for not doing what he didn’t want to do.