the tent it was dark. And Whitey didn't fall into the hole in the
ice--he walked into it. His life was not in danger, because he didn't
mind a little cold water, and the Indian lying there on his stomach,
with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, could see, and he quickly
grabbed Whitey by the shoulders and yanked him out--but, oh! the boots!

They were crinkled and soaked and water-logged and shrunken. And it took
six Indians to get them off, two pulling on each boot, and two to hold
Whitey. And when they were off, Whitey borrowed a pair of moccasins, and
raced to the ranch house, with Injun and Sitting Bull.

Now, in the living-room of the Bar O ranch house in winter--and in every
other ranch house in that part of the country--was a big stove that held
a stick of cordwood three feet long. In fact, it held four or five such
sticks of cordwood, which, you can imagine, made a good fire. And
straight to this fire went Whitey. He was wet, and he was ashamed. And
he put the boots under the stove to dry, without anybody's seeing him.
And he didn't say anything to his father about it, because he was
ashamed. And he went to bed without saying anything about it.

In the morning Whitey was up with the sun, and went to get his boots.
And, oh, ye gods! Why didn't the heavens fall? What once was a pair of
proud boots, looked like two little, brown wrinkled apples! It was a
tragedy in six acts. It was worse than that, for one can find words for
a tragedy. But why dwell on it?

And while Whitey was getting the worst of the first, horrible shock, his
father came into the living-room, and not knowing why, Whitey ran, and
his father, not knowing why, I suspect, ran after him. Whitey was fleet
of foot, and much smaller than his father, so he could make the stairs
better. And he ran up and down and around, now slamming this door, and
now slamming that one.

And Whitey's father began to get angry. But Whitey had become a frontier
boy, and accustomed to standing his ground in the face of a superior
enemy--at least, when he couldn't run any farther. When he was finally
run down, he backed into a corner, lifted his fists to the proper angle,
and, in this boyish fighting attitude, said to his big, strong,
wonderful dad, "Don't you hit me!"

If it hadn't been for his father's strong sense of humor, Whitey
probably would have been in for a sound trimming. As it was, his father
paused and looked at him sternly; then his piercing blue eyes be