pleased, he said, but he'd advise me to buckle down and learn something
about cattle. It was plain I never would amount to anything in an office.
He laid a yard or two of ticket on the table at my elbow, and on top of
that a check for one hundred dollars, payable to one Ellis Carleton.

I took up the check and read every word on it twice--not because I needed
to; I was playing for time to think. Then I twisted it up in a taper,
held it to the blaze in the fireplace, and lighted a cigarette with it.
Dad kept his finger-tips together and watched me without any expression
whatsoever in his face. I took three deliberate puffs, picked up the
ticket, and glanced along down its dirty green length. Dad never moved a
muscle, and I remember the clock got to ticking louder than I'd ever heard
it in my life before. I may as well be perfectly honest! That ticket did
not appeal to me a little bit. I think he expected to see that go up in
smoke, also. But, though I'm pretty much of a fool at times, I believe
there are lucid intervals when I recognize certain objects--such as
justice. I knew that, in the main, dad was right. I _had_ been leading
a rather reckless existence, and I was getting pretty old for such kid
foolishness. He had measured out the dose, and I meant to swallow it
without whining--but it was exceeding bitter to the palate!

"I see the ticket is dated twenty-four hours ahead," I said as calmly as
I knew how, "which gives me time to have Rankin pack a few duds. I hope
the outfit you furnish includes a red silk handkerchief and a Colt's .44
revolver, and a key to the proper method of slaying acquaintances in the
West. I hate to start in with all white chips."

"You probably mean a Colt's .45," said dad, with a more convincing
calmness than I could show. "It shall be provided. As to the key, you will
no doubt find that on the ground when you arrive."