“Well, I suppose it’s necessary for me to go through college,” I admitted. “Dad intended me to. I was to begin this coming school year—September, isn’t it? But that’s nearly three months away. I would like to see that Red River ranch. I was born there, you know.” “You’ll have to cut your eye-teeth in the business sometime,” he mused. “You’ll be less likely to get into mischief there than you will in town. Yes, I daresay you might as well take the trip. But no funking school this fall, mind. I’ve known youngsters to go to the cattle country and stick there. Your father did.” “I won’t,” I promised, “even if I want to stay, I’ll be ready to dig in when September comes.” “You’d better.” He laughed at my earnestness. “Or I’ll be down there after you. When do you propose to start?” “As soon as I can.” Having paved the way to go, I wanted, boy-fashion, to be on the way at once. “Any idea how to get there?” he queried; as if he had his doubts about the development of my bump of location. But I had him there. “Oh, yes. Dad used to take the train through Little Rock to Fort Worth, and on up into the Panhandle from there. Sometimes he took a steamer from here to Memphis. I think I’d like the river trip best.” “All right,” he decided. “You shall go, my boy, just as soon as you can get ready. Now we’ll see about this guardianship matter.” We saw about it in such wise that two days later I was the happy possessor of a ticket to Amarillo and a well-lined pocket-book. I had dinner with Bolton, and bade him good-bye quite cheerfully, for I felt a good deal as Columbus must have done when he turned the prow of his caravel away from Spanish shores. After leaving Bolton I went home after a grip I’d forgotten. The river boat on which I’d taken passage was due to leave at midnight. And that midnight departure was what started one Bob Sumner up the Trouble Trail. It isn’t known by that name; it doesn’t show on any map that ever I saw; but the man who doesn’t have to travel it some time in his career—well, he’s in luck. Or perhaps one should reason by the reverse process. I daresay it all depends on the point of view. CHAPTER II—BY WAY OF THE “NEW MOON” Lights by the thousand speckled the night-enshrouded water-front when I reached the slip where my boat lay. On the huge roofed-in wharf freight-handlers swarmed like bees. The rumble of hand trucks and the tramp of feet rose to the great beams overhead and echoed back in a steady drone. Lamps fluttered on vibrating walls. Men moved in haste, throwing long shadows ahead and behind them. Boxes, bales, barrels, sacked stuff vanished swiftly down three separate inclines to the lower deck of the _Memphis Girl_, and from the depths of this freight-swallowing monster came the raucous gabble, freely garnished with profanity, of the toiling stevedores.