Cattle-Ranch to College

by John Kendrick Bangs

  CHAPTER XX.

  A TRANSFORMATION.

  The love of adventure that possesses the soul of most boys was not acharacteristic of John Worth. An adventurous life he had always led andthought nothing of it; it was too commonplace to be remarkable to him.This starting forth in search of knowledge, this seeking of the "dude"and his ways in his own haunts, was an entirely different matter; it wasalmost terrifying, and he was half inclined to turn back. To mix withmen who wore white "boiled" shirts habitually, who dressed and went downto dinner, and who did all sorts of things strange to the frontier,seemed to John a trying ordeal, and he dreaded it.

  He had no definite plan, for he could not quite realize what lay beforehim. A cowboy merely he would not be; he now felt that there was alarger place that he could fill, and he knew that this could be reachedonly through education.

  A sound body and brain, enough money to last till spring, a good horseto carry him, and a strong resolve to get somewhere were hispossessions.

  For ten days he and Lightning wandered around from one settlement toanother, from town to town; he was enjoying his freedom to the utmost,so much so in fact that none of the towns he passed through suited him.Finally he woke up to the fact that he was avoiding a decision, and hepulled himself up with a round turn.

  "Here, John Worth," he said to himself, "you're afraid to begin; any ofthose towns would have done."

  He was in the open when he came to himself, riding along on a goodhorse, dressed in a complete outfit of cowboy finery, fringed chaps,good, broad-brimmed felt hat, heavy, well-fitting riding gloves, andsilver spurs, the envy of every man he met.

  For the second time a storm helped to decide his destiny, for as he rodealong the sky became overcast and soon the snow began to fall heavily."Come, 'Lite,' let's get out of this," he said to his only companion;and heading the pony toward the place where he knew ---- was located, heurged him forward. Just before dark he reached ----, and after finding astable put up at a neat little hotel near by. Even if he had wished togo on to some other place he could not now, for the storm developed intoa regular blizzard, which prevented man or beast from venturing outsidethe town limits. John soon turned to the hotel keeper, a loquaciousindividual who believed in his town and could sound its praises as wellas any real-estate boomer.

  "Schools?" in answer to one of John's inquiries. "Schools? Why, we'vegot one of the best schools in Montana; higher'n a high school! Schoolsand churches--we're great on schools and churches."

  He took his cue from John's questions; he could discourse just aseloquently about the shady part of the town, its slums, its dives, anddance halls; there was nothing in that town that should not be there andeverything that was desirable--at least that was the impression thisworthy strove to convey.

  "Schools and churches," said John to himself. "That's what Mr. Bakersaid I must hitch up to."

  For several days the blizzard continued, so long in fact that John grewrestless and longed for something to do. He had about decided that hedid not like this town and thought he would move on as soon as theweather permitted.

  One day the landlord was declaiming earnestly on the merits of the townand its institutions.

  "Now, there's the academy," said he. "Now that academy is----"

  "What's an academy?" interrupted John.

  "Oh, that's a place where they teach you things."

  "What kind of things?" persisted John.

  "Reading and arithmetic and geography and--here's Gray, he'll tell youall about it, he goes there. Henry, come here a minute," he shouted.

  A young man in overalls, well sprinkled with ashes, and carrying a fireshovel appeared.

  The landlord introduced them and told Gray that John was looking forinformation about the academy. Then he went off, leaving them together.

  "Well," said Gray, a slight, dark-haired, bright-eyed, thoughtfulfellow, after some preliminary talk, "you begin with arithmetic; thencomes algebra, then geometry and trigonometry in mathematics; thelanguages are Latin, Greek, French, and German."

  The mere recital of these things was enough to scare John, who hadscarcely heard the names before. When Gray went on to enlarge on thefine course of study the academy afforded, as a loyal student should,his hearer was appalled by the amount of learning necessary even toenter a school, and feared the ranch after all was the place for him.

  THE DRIVE ... FORDING A STREAM. (_Page 315._)]

  "Some of the fellows are good workers," Gray went on, "but some donothing but talk to the girls."

  "Girls!" thought John. "So girls go to school with the boys here." Thisboy, who had hardly seen a girl, was terrified at the idea of beingbrought into such close association with them--he was quite sure now theranch was the place for him.

  That night he made up his mind to go back to Mr. Baker and ask for hisold job, but the next morning was no better than the preceding ones.

  For lack of something better to do, after much persuasion on Gray'spart, he went with him to the academy.

  The things he saw there were as strange to him as they would be to anEsquimau.

  An old-fashioned school of one hundred and fifty students seated at rowsof desks, the boys on one side of the room, the girls on the other. Theprincipal sat at one end, surrounded by blackboards. Gray found a seatfor John at the back of the room, out of the range of curious eyes, andhe sat there and watched and listened--wonderingly.

  The classes went up and recited one by one or demonstrated mathematicalproblems on the blackboards. John heard with amazement youngsters answerquestions which he could not comprehend at all, and yet he noticed thattheir faces were care-free and happy, as if they had never known whattrouble was. The faces he knew, young and old, bore distinctly thetraces of care and hardship. He was intensely interested and enjoyed thewhole session keenly.

  When noon came, Gray approached, as he thought, to return to the hotelwith, him, but to his surprise he was marched up to the principal's deskand introduced to Professor Marston. John was awe-stricken, but theprincipal knew boys thoroughly, and soon put him at his ease.

  "Will you come with us?" asked Mr. Marston after a while.

  "I wanted to, but I guess not now." Somehow John's resolve seemed ratherfoolish in the presence of this kindly faced man with the high forehead.

  "Why? What is the trouble?"

  "Oh, I changed my mind."

  "What's your reason?" persisted the professor. "You don't look like afellow who changes his mind with every wind."

  His manner was so kindly, his interest so evident, that John let go hisreserve and told of his ambitions and hopes and then of the futility, ashe thought, of a fellow at his age beginning at the very lowest rung ofthe ladder when boys much younger than he were so far advanced. Thisapplied not only to actual schooling but to all the little thingswherein he saw he was different from these town-dwelling youngsters.

  Mr. Marston was interested. He invited John to call and see him afterschool. "I think we shall be able to talk our way out of thisdifficulty," he said, as the boy bade him good-by.

  At the appointed hour John appeared, eager to be convinced butaltogether dubious. Professor Marston received him cordially, and,taking him into his private office, talked to him "like a Dutch uncle,"as John assured Gray afterwards. He spoke to him out of his own wideexperience, told him of men who had worked themselves up to a high placefrom small beginnings by determination and hard work. He showed Johnthat he believed he could do the same, and finally brought back theconfidence in himself which for a time had been banished.

  "How did you come out?" called Gray as John burst into the hotel, hisface beaming, his eyes alight--confidence in every gesture.

  "Bully!" exclaimed he. "I'm going to start right in."

  "That's the way to talk," said his friend, delighted at his goodspirits.

  "Professor Marston is going to help me, and I'm to get some one tonight-herd me; between the two I'm going to round up all those thingsand put my brand on 'em. I mean," he hastened to exp
lain, as he realizedthat Gray might not be up on all the cow-punchers' phrases, "I hope toput away in my mind some of the things that go to make upbook-learning."

  Whereupon Gray volunteered to act as his night-herder, as John calledhis tutor. The offer was gladly accepted, and the two went out to getthe school books which Mr. Marston had recommended.

  John's first day was, as he expected, an ordeal. He was sensitive, andit tried his soul to stand up with the primary class--he almost afull-grown man. He heard the remarks spoken in an undertone that passedfrom lip to lip when he stepped forward with the youngsters, and hewould have been glad to be able to get his hands on the whisperers andbang their heads together; but he only shut his firm jaws together alittle tighter, clinched his hands, and drew his breath hard.

  He did not even know the multiplication table, but under Gray's coachinghe picked it up very rapidly. Mr. Marston made everything as easy forhim as possible, and under the considerate aid of these two he madegreat strides in his mental training. His application and capacity forwork was tremendous, and the amount he got through quite astonished histeachers.

  The jeers of his schoolmates, however, not always suppressed, drove himmore and more to himself. Gray, Professor Marston, and "Lite" were hisonly companions. "Lite" was now living in clover; never in his shortlife had he imagined such ease, so much provender, and so little work;he was therefore fat and exceedingly lively, so that when John wasastride of him his master was able to show his schoolmates his absolutesuperiority in one thing at least.

  As he advanced in his studies and demonstrated his ability as ahorseman and a boxer (he soon had an opportunity to show that he knewhow to "put up his hands") the respect of his schoolmates increased--atleast that of the boys did--but it was only the kindly glances from onegirl's big soft eyes that saved the whole of girl-kind from completerepudiation on his part.

  John's first visit to a church was an event that he did not soon forget.It was at Professor Marston's invitation. He came early, and as he toldGray afterward: "The millionaire took me clear up front. My clothes werestiff and my shoes squeaked, and I know everyone in the place waslooking my way." The music was strange to him; the only thing familiarwas "Old Hundred," and even that "had frills on it," he asserted. Theform of service was new and the good clothes of both men and womenoppressed him. The sermon, however, he could and did appreciate. Asermon was the only part of a religious service he had ever listened to.From time to time hardy missionaries visited the cow-camps andsheep-ranches, and he had often been one of the congregation that, roughthough they were, and little as they appreciated what they heard,listened respectfully to the good man's sermon. John had often on suchoccasions, after the preacher had finished and gone away, mounted onthe wagon tongue and repreached the sermon, using his own words but thesame ideas. He was therefore able to appreciate and enjoy this sermonpreached in what seemed to him a most elaborate house of worship. Thiswas his first attendance at a "fancy church," and it was the last openone for a long time. In the evening he was wont to steal in, in time tohear the sermon, he excusing himself thus: "I can't do it all at once;I'll have to learn their ways first."

  The dinner at Professor Marston's which followed his first church-goingwas a red-letter occasion of another kind. John's earnestness andsincerity always made friends for him, and he speedily won the heart ofMrs. Marston. She took great interest in the boy and gave him many hintsas to the ways of civilized life, so tactfully that he could feel onlygratitude.

  He left her home full of content; he had discovered a new phase oflife--to him a heretofore closed book--the "home beautiful."

  John Worth was a good student, a hard, conscientious worker, and withthe aid of his friend Gray and his instructor he made more and morerapid progress. As spring advanced, he began to hear talk about"vacation"--a word the meaning of which was strange to him.

  When he found out what it was he wondered what new wrinkle would be"sprung" on him next. But it was a serious thing to him; he could notafford to stay in town and do nothing--he wanted to keep on with hiswork.

  Professor Marston called him into his office just before school closed,and after learning of his difficulty suggested that he get a job duringthe summer and come back to school in the fall, when he would give himwork that would pay his necessary expenses while he kept on withstudies. John's heart was filled with gratitude, but his benefactorwould not listen to his thanks, and bade him good-by and good luck.

  The boy went away thinking he was indeed in luck. The only trouble wasto secure a job for the summer. This problem was speedily solved byGray, who proposed that they should try to join a party of tourists thatwere to visit Yellowstone Park, and act as guides and guards. To theirgreat joy they were able to accomplish this, and soon after thecommencement festivities they rode out with the tourist outfit. Johnalways had pleasure in remembering one of the number, a fearless,undaunted rider who won his admiration then, and still more later, whenhe became Colonel Roosevelt of the "Rough Riders." John in his oldcowboy dress and mounted on Lightning was happy enough; as for thehorse, he fairly bubbled over with joy and gladness. He showed it in hisusual unconventional fashion by trying to throw John "into the middle ofnext week," but his master understood him well and took all his pranksgood-naturedly, sitting in the saddle as if it was an every-dayoccurrence and not worth bothering about.

  The boy's leech-like riding attracted the attention of his employers atonce and especially one--a young Easterner named Sherman, who was acollege man.

  The summer's experience was a very pleasant one; compared to the workand hardship that John had formerly endured this was child's play.

  On the long summer evenings young Sherman would often join John while hewas keeping his vigil over the saddle stock, and they would have longtalks, John telling of his experiences with Indians, cattle, and horses,while Sherman in turn told of college life, its advantages andpleasures, and the hard work connected with it.

  Shortly before the time set for the return of the party, Sherman, whohad learned to respect and like John greatly, said: "Suppose you studyhard next fall and spring and prepare for college. If you can bone upenough to pass the examinations I think I can get you a scholarship."

  The proposition took John's breath away, but he was not the kind of aboy to be "stumped," and when they separated he assured Sherman thathe'd do "some tall trying."

  The party of tourists among whom John was soon broke up. Sherman wentEast after exacting a promise from John to "carry out that deal."

  John returned to ---- and to the academy, his path now marked outclearly before him and a prize worth striving for at the end.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  TWELVE HUNDRED MILES AWHEEL TO COLLEGE.

  The academy reopened with some new pupils and many old ones. John shookhands with his few friends, glad to get back, and, with firmdetermination to carry out the purpose that now possessed him, startedto work.

  Professor Marston kept his word about the winter job, and John was dulyinstalled as janitor of the building, with opportunity to make extra payby sawing wood and doing errands.

  He was fully occupied, as may well be imagined, and poor Lightning,though sure of good care, missed the companionship that both he and hismaster delighted in. John foresaw that he would not be able to keep thehorse, and he finally decided what to do with him. He would give him hisfreedom.

  One day the boy took him out on the prairie some distance from the town.

  "Lite, old boy," he began, rubbing his nose and patting him, "we've hadgood and bad times together, and we've been good friends, but we've gotto separate now."

  He took off the saddle and bridle: "Take care of yourself, old boy."

  The horse looked at him a moment inquiringly; then curvetted around aminute in high glee; but as he saw his much-loved master leaving him heturned and followed, refusing to be cast off. "Go back, Lite," Johncommanded, waving his hat to scare him. "Go back!" But the little horserefused to leave him, and followed him back to town, wher
e he was takenin and petted again. John was touched to the heart by this loyalty andaffection.

  Next day a stableman took him out among the range horses and dismissedhim. This time he stayed, and John never saw or heard of him afterward.

  That was a wrench.

  Lightning gone, John allowed himself no pleasures, but instead tookevery bit of work that came his way, whether it yielded money orknowledge.

  He joined the Debating Society and made it a duty to do his best whencalled upon. Toward spring, as wood sawing became scarce, he took todelivering morning papers to the more distant parts of town; and inorder to do this more quickly he hired an old bicycle, learned to rideit, and made his rounds just after daybreak on that. So he was able toget back to the school house and study a while before opening up.

  "I don't see how you do it all, Worth," said Professor Marston.

  "Well, I couldn't, I guess, if I didn't have a big stake to work for. IfI keep my present school work up and study this summer I'll get intocollege this fall," and John told him of the offer Sherman had made him.

  "I hope your friend won't forget," the Professor suggested, fearing thathis pupil was building high hopes on an insecure foundation.

  "He won't forget; he's not that kind."

  "I hope not; but how are you going to get there? It's a long way."

  John looked up quickly: he had not thought of that before. It was aserious question.

  "I don't know; but I'll get there somehow." He spoke confidently but hewas much perplexed, for he was without money, his clothes werethreadbare, and it was a necessity to study all summer, with no chanceto earn money. It was certainly a question that could not be answeredoffhand. He studied over this matter for days and no solution presenteditself. Borrow he might, but this he would not do without givingsecurity, and of security he had none. He left it for a while, hoping tobe able to think of a way out of the difficulty later.

  Before he realized it Commencement had arrived, and with it the openmeeting of the Debating Society at the Opera House. To his astonishmenthe found that he was appointed one of the two orators of the occasion.In vain he protested that he was busy, that he was unfitted; he had toaccept. "Orator--Opera House--Me!" he fairly gasped with astonishment.He was rather worried about it, but Gray, whom he consulted that night,reassured him.

  "Don't worry, anyhow," he advised. "Take a subject you're interested in,write out what you think about it, boil it down so you can repeat it intwenty minutes, then memorize it."

  John also consulted Beeman, the other orator, who said he was going tospeak about the Chinese Question.

  "Against them," he said, in answer to the other's sharply put query."That's the only way to please a crowd--take the popular side."

  "Well, I'm going to take the side I want, and I'll tell 'em what I thinkabout it, too," said John vehemently, his spirit thoroughly roused.

  "Go ahead," said Beeman, visions floating before him of an opportunityto hurl his thunders at a definite champion (and an inexperienced one)of an unpopular cause.

  THE SUN RIVER RANCH HOUSE. (_Page 241._)]

  John set to work on his speech with his usual eagerness and energy. Hisheart was in it, and the prospect of a contest of wit or muscle alwaysstirred him. He wrote, rewrote, cut down, filled in and polished untilGray, his friend and critic, pronounced it "good stuff."

  In the meantime, he not only kept at work at his studies, his duties asjanitor and paper boy, but he was at work at something else that hethought might prove most important.

  At a half-mile race track, a little distance out, a very early risingcitizen, if he happened to be in that vicinity at daybreak, would havewondered greatly to see a half-clad figure on an old bicycle go flyinground and round the track. If, overcome by curiosity, he had waited awhile, he would have seen the same figure, neatly clothed, appear fromunder the grand stand carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. Then ifhe watched he would see him mount an old bicycle and ride off. But thisperformance took place so very early that no one witnessed it.

  At last the day of the Debating Society's open meeting came--the day onwhich John was to make his first public appearance. His speech wascomplete, memorized, and ready for delivery. He spouted it for the lasttime to Gray, who put the stamp of his approval on it and advised him toforget it all till the time came to speak.

  The Opera House was crowded when John and Gray reached it, for thetown's people took great interest in its institutions, and of these theacademy was one of the most important.

  John looked out from the wings on the sea of upturned faces, appalled.

  Beeman came first. He went out before the audience, cool,self-possessed, graceful, and delivered his oration smoothly, forcibly,and well. He chose the popular side, and the audience rewarded him withgenerous applause.

  Then John heard the chairman announce, "Oration by John Worth."

  He walked out from the dimness of the flies into the full glare of thebrightly lighted stage, bewildered, and, without any preliminaries,began:

  "In the history of every country, however just, however good or great,there are certain pages besmirched by the record of black deeds ofwrong."

  So his carefully written, carefully memorized speech began. As he stoodbefore his audience he saw nothing but the pages of his manuscript: hefelt that he must keep his mind on them or he would be lost. He followeddown the first page, mentally turned it over, and began the second.Beeman had touched a point on the second page, and treated it in aridiculous way, he thought. His concentration was broken, and he beganto fear for the first time that his memory would fail. A dozen linesdown the second page he faltered, stopped, and stood riveted, miserable.The few moments' pause seemed endless. He tried to think of the nextline, next page, anything; in vain, it was all a blank. The pile ofmanuscript, a minute ago so clearly before his mind's eye, had vanished,and he stood staring at the crowd before him. Some one behind tried toprompt him; it brought him to life. Beeman's fallacies had incensed him;he'd tell them so, and in no uncertain way. With a whole-arm gesture hementally cast away his carefully prepared speech.

  "It's wrong! All wrong!" he said intensely, and with conviction in histones. His own voice electrified him. His first few sentences were merebursts of indignation, his tongue went on of its own volition, it couldscarcely give utterance to his stirred feelings. As he went on, hisemotions grew more quiet but none the less earnest. Constant yodellingto cattle for years had given him a voice which carried to the farthestcorner of the building. He had carefully studied his subject, and nowthat he had regained his nerve he spoke his mind with enthusiasm andvigor. His arguments were well chosen and his language terse and to thepoint. Stimulated by excitement, new ideas came, and he uttered themwith a confidence that afterward amazed even himself. Parts of his ownprepared oration came back to him and he spoke it as if it wasimpromptu, with force and freedom.

  The time had come to stop, and without a pause he launched out on hisoriginal peroration with the ease, confidence, and fire of a veteranorator. The closing sentence rang out clear and strong: "Men and womenof America, let us wipe out the blot from this page of our country'shistory and make her in truth the Land of the Free and the Home of theBrave."

  His speech over, John stumbled, rather than walked, off the stage to thestreet. The reaction was great. He did not hear the applause, thecheering; he did not know that he had aroused the enthusiasm of peoplenaturally prejudiced against his side of the question.

  John went straight to his room and to bed, but not to sleep--his nervoustension would not allow that. The thing uppermost in his mind, thething that worried him, was that he had forgotten his speech--the speechhe had so carefully prepared and learned by heart.

  The papers had to be delivered in the morning, however, and a certainself-imposed engagement at the racetrack kept, so he was up betimes.

  After these two duties were finished, he rode down the street todiscover if possible the depths of ignominy to which he had been broughtby forgetting his spee
ch. The idea that he had disgraced himself stillclung to him. Two fellows appeared right away, and before John couldvoice his greeting they called out: "Say, Worth, you just ate Beeman uplast night. Are you sure you wrote it yourself?"

  "He doesn't know that I forgot it," thought John, who hesitated a minutebefore he answered aloud: "Of course, it was all my own."

  "Well, it was a rattling good speech, anyhow."

  John thanked him, and then the talk drifted to the games to be held nextday, and to the bicycle race especially, where the winner would receivea brand new up-to-date bicycle as a prize.

  "That's going to be a hot old race," said Searles, one of the twostudents. "Every pedal kicker in town is after that new wheel."

  "Yes, that's a prize worth riding for," and John had a look in his eyesthat Searles did not understand till later.

  Several times that day persons of various degrees of importance--amongthem Mr. Haynes, the financial and political corner-stone of thecommunity--stopped John, called him by name, and chatted pleasantly withhim. Mr. Haynes said that he was a credit to the school and the town. SoJohn's self-respect began to come back. His good fortune was dawning,now that he was making preparations to leave it all.

  Field day came clear and beautiful, and the crowd came en masse to seethe sports. A series of well-advertised events were to be run, theclimax of which was the one-mile bicycle race. The prize wheel had stoodlabelled in the donor's window for a week, and every wheelman and boy inthe neighborhood had gazed at and coveted it.

  The early events were well contested, and worked the spectators up to afever heat of interest. By the time the bicycle race was announced thecrowd was wildly enthusiastic. Discussions as to the probable winnerwere rife.

  "There's none of them that'll beat Tucker," said one. "He'll have awalk-over."

  "He won't walk over Bolton," declared another.

  And so it went, till the contestants appeared on the track. Tucker andBolton were the favorites.

  As the men lined up at the stake some one remarked: "Why, there's Worth,with the old bike, too. He's the fellow that made the speech. I thoughthe had more sense than to go out with that old rattle-trap."

  "They're off!" The shout went up as the starter's pistol cracked.

  Tucker jumped to the front, and everybody cheered him; but Bolton wasnear, and as the riders passed the stand for the first time it was seenthat he was close behind. Following Bolton's rear wheel closely was astrange rider on an old wheel, whom the crowd did not recognize atfirst.

  "By George! It's Worth," said a student, surprised. The men swept by,closely bunched, their wheels rattling, their legs going like pistons,and the bodies of some swaying as they exerted themselves to the utmostto keep up.

  "Bolton's going past. He's leading!" And the speaker jumped up and downin his excitement. But John clung to the leader's rear wheel and wentwith him. Faster and faster they raced, past Tucker, opening a big gapbetween the bunch. Bolton was riding for glory, but John was riding forsomething besides glory: his success meant position, standing, a greatopportunity, a future.

  A hundred feet from the finishing tape he bent his head and made atremendous effort. Early morning training stood him in good stead now,for he began to gain on Bolton, and inch by inch to pass him. The oldmachine groaned alarmingly, but it stood up to its work in spite of itsprotests. Twenty feet from the finish John seemed to leap forward, andcrossed the tape just ahead of the laboring Bolton.

  The crowd was rather disappointed to see its favorites beaten, butapplauded the winner generously as he went up to the judge's stand toreceive his shining prize.

  Gray was the first man to wring his hand; his was an honest, unfeigned,glad congratulation.

  "Say, Gray," said John, "you ride her home. I want a farewell ride onthis old wheel. I pull out to-morrow."

  "What!" ejaculated Gray in astonishment.

  "Yes, that's what I wanted that wheel for. I straddle it to-morrow andgo East. I haven't said anything about the plan, for I wasn't sure thewheel would be mine."

  "Did you expect to win?" Gray asked.

  "I've trained a month. That's what gave me the wind to finish so strong.You see my plans need transportation East. I had to win--I'm going toride that wheel to college."

  That evening John bade the Marstons good-by. They tried to dissuade himfrom going; they pictured the career that was open to him in the townwhere he had made friends and had gained a reputation, but his mind wasmade up, and though he was touched by their kindness, go he must.

  "I don't like to have you leave," said the Professor. "You'll be throwninto circumstances unlike any you have ever met before. But I know thatyou can adapt yourself to new conditions, and for that reason it may bebest for you while your mind is growing. You will never forget the West,but I feel sure you will not leave the East, once you are settled there.Good-by, my boy, and God bless you."

  John never forgot the kind parting words nor Professor Marston's alwaysconsiderate treatment.

  The two friends, Worth and Gray, talked long and earnestly that nightand it was late when they retired, but at daybreak they were stirring.John ate a deliberate breakfast, strapped a few necessaries to hiswheel, bade his friend a sincere farewell, and rode off.

  He pedalled on in the crisp morning air till he reached a high point,where he dismounted and took a long look at the town where he hadstruggled so hard, but which was the scene of his triumph as well as histrials. His satisfaction was mixed with regret, for he left behind good,true friends and a known esteem, for--he knew not what. The town lay inthe hazy valley below, morning smoke-wreaths now curling from manychimneys, the gray shingle roofs embedded in dark-green foliage; it wasa scene of contentment and rest. He contrasted this with other scenes,active, restless, hazardous ones; the cattle range, the sheep camp, andthe mine. The thought of his home was not so clear as the later scenes,though he had visited it during his stay at school. He had found Ben analmost grown-up, vigorous, business-like ranchman, glad to see hisbrother, but interested in his own affairs; not the same old boyish Benof old.

  It was with real regret that he turned and left the town that had in away been a cradle and a home to him.

  He mounted his wheel and sped down the slope--Eastward.

  Day after day the traveller pushed on, following the windings of theroads now where formerly he would have ridden his horse as the crowflies.

  Seventy miles a day. Eighty miles a day. Population increased; roadswere better, ninety miles a day. His training for racing stood him ingood stead. One hundred miles a day; his face always turned Eastward.

  Rains came; the roads became rivers of mud. He was driven to the drierrailroad track and jolted along over the ties. Sixty miles a day. Theend not yet in sight, money exhausted, prospects not very cheerful; butwith resolution undaunted he pushed along. A brickyard affordedtemporary work. Five dollars earned, he "hit the trail" again.

  Midday was fiercely hot; he took advantage of the cool mornings, and bytwilight pedalled continuously. Wide swamps intervened. Insects,stingingly vicious, beset him. The sand along the river banks washeart-breaking to a wheelman and the mountains formed almostunsurmountable barriers. People he met misdirected or were ignorant, andhe often went far out of his way.

  But the goal was sighted at last. The day he reached Sherman's town hemade one hundred and twenty miles and rode up the main street a sorryspecimen--tired, dirty, tanned leather color by sun, wind, and rain.

  His plans were fully made. The wheel was pawned at once, and two hourslater John Worth emerged from a little hotel, bathed, shaved, and neatlyclothed.

  The address of his friend written for him was made nearly illegible byfriction, sweat, and dirt. But by the aid of a friendly policeman he wasable to find Sherman's house. He rang the bell, was admitted promptly bya neat maid, and ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor, the likeof which he had never seen before. The chair that he at last dared touse was soft and luxurious, and the journey had wearied him so that hewas just ab
out dropping off to sleep when Sherman entered.

  "How do you do, sir?" Sherman's greeting was rather formal. "What can Ido for you?"

  At the sound of his voice John started to his feet with a jump.

  "Don't you know me, Sherman?" he said.

  "You--you can't be John Worth? Why, bless my heart, is it really you?"cried Sherman.

  In an instant the one idea that had sustained him through the tryinghours and apparently endless miles of his journey came to John's mind.

  "Yes," he said, the light of triumph in his eyes. "I'm John Worth. AndI've come to college."