The more Bill thought over this matter the more undecided he became, and finally he saddled his horse and rode down to the Junction, and resorted to what was, for him, a very unusual action.  So later in the day Mr. Sherwood received the following telegram, in his New York office: 

Whitey wont learn nothin.  Ketches pickrul.  What will I do?

William Jordan

You will notice that this message took exactly ten words—­which was evidence of more thinking on Bill’s part.

Bill waited patiently at the Junction, and late that night received the following answer: 

Put the boy at such a hard job that he will be glad to resume his studies.

Sherwood

CHAPTER X

A HARD JOB

The next day, as Whitey—­all unconscious of the plot against him—­returned from the affairs of his fishing partnership, he was met by Bill Jordan.

“Whitey,” said Bill, “I got somep’n’ for you t’ do, an’ I’m ’fraid it’ll take you out o’ school for a while.”

Whitey looked sharply at Bill for a trace of suspicion or sarcasm, but Bill’s face was as blank as a Chinaman’s.

“‘S very important,” Bill continued, “an’ I think your father’d consider me justified in takin’ you away fr’m your lessons.”  Having studied this matter all out beforehand, Bill was using larger words than usual.  “I got a letter for t’ be delivered t’ Dan Brayton, up at th’ T Up and Down Ranch, ‘bout some business o’ your father’s.  Really, I ought t’ go m’self, an’ see Dan pussonally, but I ain’t got time.  Can’t spare any o’ th’ men, ‘count o’ th’ roundup’s comin’ on.  Don’t see nothin’ t’ do, except t’ make you th’ messenger.”

Whitey was delighted.  “Where is the T Up and Down?” he asked.

“‘Bout a hunderd an’ fifteen miles no’thwest o’ here, t’other side o’ Zumbro Creek,” Bill answered.

“Good!” cried Whitey.  “I’ll take Injun, and—­”

“Wouldn’t do that,” Bill objected.  “Dan hates Injuns, an’ he’d sure be rambunctious ’bout this one.”

“All right,” Whitey agreed, rather reluctantly.  “If I start early enough, Monty and I ought to make it some time to-morrow night.”

If Whitey had been noticing Bill’s face at that moment, he would have seen a rather peculiar smile cross it, but he wasn’t.  Nor did he suspect anything the next morning, when he met Bill at the corral before dawn.

“That Monty hoss o’ yours seems sort o’ lame, this mornin’,” said Bill.  “Reck’n one o’ th’ other cayuses must ‘a’ kicked him, or somep’n.  Dunno as he c’d stand th’ trip.”

And, sure enough, Monty limped slightly as he moved about the corral.  Whitey did not know that a hair tied around a horse’s leg, just above the hock, will make the animal limp, and will not be noticeable, nor that as a part of Bill’s scheme Monty had been so treated.  So Whitey was worried about his pony, but Bill assured him that Monty would probably be all right in a day or so—­when it was too late.