And now came bitter, oh, bitter! disappointment for Whitey.

He was not to be allowed to go.

He had been hero enough.

The only clothing that iron-gray pony had on during that fourteen-mile ride was a hackamore, and the only clothing Whitey had on was a night-shirt.

He was fit for nothing except to lie face downward and sleep--no attitude for a hero.
Whitey begged, he appealed, he almost wept, but his father was firm.