"I haven’t had a book in my hand, Uncle Fred. When it comes night, I am too tired to understand the newspapers that I bring over from Miners’, to say nothing of delving in histology. I expect I shall forget all I ever knew, but never mind! If I can get those claims patented, and so satisfy father, then next year I’ll begin over again to fit myself for college–guess what I knew once will come back when I’ve studied a little. Anyway, I’m not going to worry about it now."
Ross underscored those last words to convince himself that he was not worrying, and handed the letter over to Bill Travers to be mailed at Meeteetse.
To his father Ross proudly wrote of the week’s progress in the tunnel, adding in reply to a rather longer letter than usual, which he found awaiting him in Camp, "No, I have no intention of throwing up the job."
His father had opened the way wide for him to "throw up the job" after receiving the letter he had requested Steele to fill with exact information. That part of the information which stated that Ross must necessarily be shut up in Meadow Creek Valley for months with a more or less weak-headed partner had led to the letter which Ross found awaiting him. But Ross, Junior, was not well enough acquainted with Ross, Senior, to understand that this letter was an invitation for him to return East.
"He thinks I’m just chicken-hearted enough to be ready to cut and run at the first obstacle," was Ross’s thought when he read what his father had written. His chin came up, and his eyes narrowed. "I’d stay and work here a year before I’d show the white feather now."
Ever since his last visit to New York, Ross had dwelt with secret pride on the respect and confidence that his father had shown him, and the sensation was so new and pleasant that he had no intention of forfeiting it.
And thus it happened that, with Grant, Senior, and Dr. Grant and Aunt Anne all desiring Ross’s presence at home, and with Ross’s wishes coinciding exactly with theirs, he remained at the "jumping-off place" into the wilderness.
In his private office on Broadway, Grant, Senior, read and reread, "No, I have no intention of throwing up the job." He twisted uneasily in his swivel-chair. He pulled Steele’s last letter out of a pigeonhole, read it, frowned, and replaced it. Then he leaned back and admitted aloud:
"I wish the boy was safely entered in medical college."
But, even as he considered the matter, "the boy" with a small pack on his back, candy and a few apples to eat as a relish with the canned stuff, was plodding through the snow, light and easily brushed aside as yet, over the trail between Miners’ Camp and Meadow Creek. And the boy’s heart was growing as courageous as his muscles were strong.