"But they ain't got no money," Bill was objecting.

Then Buck Higgins was sauntering up and remarking, "Say, Sid Griggs,
over t' th' Diamond Dagger, was tellin' me, t'day, how Injun and Whitey
sells him herds o' fine pick'rul at six bits a throw."

"Why don't they bring some home? When do they ketch them pick'rul?
That's where they get th' cash!" Bill Jordan was exclaiming, in a rather
disconnected manner, thus showing that the putting of two and two
together is fatal to wrongdoers.

Then Bill called on Miss Jennie Adams, at her temple of learning, and
found that Whitey had spent only a week there, and confirmed
his--Bill's--suspicion that school hours had become fishing hours.

Bill Jordan was big and strong enough to lick Whitey, but he felt that
he had not the moral right to do so, and he was greatly puzzled. He
realized that, as you may lead a horse to the water but you can't make
him drink, so you may lead a boy to school but you can't make him study.
Most of Bill's own school hours had been spent in hunting, as he didn't
care for fishing. Thus, if Bill lectured Whitey, the boy could throw
Bill's own ignorance of book-learning in his face.

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?