But nothing was to be gained by that, and he started along the trail, which really was a little-used wagon track.  And as he walked he thought about Bill Jordan, and his conclusions were none too pleasant.  He did not suspect that this was part of a deep-laid plot of Bill’s.  Rather he thought that, as the driver had said, this was one of Bill’s jokes, and he could fancy Bill and Jim Walker and Buck Higgins and the others chuckling over the trick, and Whitey planned how he would get even with Bill when he returned.  He little guessed how long it would be before that return, and how many events would intervene to drive thoughts of revenge from his mind.

And Whitey trudged on and on, and the walking was very bad, for there had been a succession of heavy rains, almost cloud-bursts, that had made the road soggy.  And for several miles the trail led through rocky hills, and there the walking was even worse, for the rains had washed the earth out of the trails, leaving a series of sharp stones that certainly were hard on moccasin-clad feet.  And the harder the trail was, the harder became Whitey’s opinion of Bill Jordan and his jokes.

Darkness comes late in that northern country, and it was dusk when Whitey had another unpleasant surprise, for he came to the Zumbro, and a sight met his eyes that would have made almost any grown-up stand back and look a lot.  She wasn’t a creek, she was a river; no, she wasn’t a river, she was a rearing, roaring, raging torrent, owing to the rains and floods that had filled the banks to overflowing.

And this wasn’t the worst of it.  Where was Cal Smith’s ranch, a mile this side of the Zumbro?  The driver had told him about that, so it couldn’t have been another of Bill Jordan’s jokes.  Whitey looked back, and saw a line of hills, and realized that the ranch lay behind them, and that he had passed it.  And sorrowfully he retraced his steps.

They say that the last mile of a long walk is the worst, and it certainly proved so in this case, for it was dark when Whitey turned off into a side road and the lights of Cal Smith’s ranch house met his view.

There may have been more welcome sights to Whitey than the yellow gleams of those window lights, but he could not remember them, as he limped toward the house.  Even the sharp barking of a dog, that was stilled by a call from an opening door, sounded good to him.  And when he was in the house, where he was welcomed by big, genial Cal Smith, and seated at a table in the kitchen, devouring ham and eggs and home-made bread and pie, and drinking hot coffee, provided by good-natured, motherly Mrs. Cal—­why, it was almost worth the tramp to meet such a reception at the end of it.

And friendly and hospitable as were Mr. and Mrs. Cal, there were other and greater attractions in that household for Whitey.  There were five young Smiths,—­five boys, three older and two younger than, Whitey,—­and not a girl in sight.  In that company Whitey forgot all about being tired.  A new boy, that knew stories, was meat and drink to them—­and five boys, that knew stories that were new to Whitey, were meat and drink to him.