There was rescue and relief in walking over to him, in addressing himself wholly to him, his back toward the girl. “Well, Scout, you could, of course, but I think it would be a pretty mean trick to play on him, don’t you?” The kindling eagerness in Elmer’s face died hard. “But--if I was awful good to him and fed him--’n’ everything? And no mountain lions would ever chase him in the city! Oh, Ranger, _can_ I?” Dean Wolcott thought that perhaps the girl would speak--he remembered her hot convictions on the subject of captive wild things--but she did not; perhaps she was likewise thankful for this instant of shelter. “You can put your rope around his neck and see how he takes it, Scout,” he said. “See if you can get him to drink, first of all. He’s too weak to run away, yet.” Then he turned back to Ginger. “Will you dismount?” “Thank you, no,” she said. Even through the mists of amazement he sensed a difference ... what was it? Intonation? Phrasing? It was too tiny a thing to notice, really, but hadn’t she always said--“No, thanks”--with a certain slouchiness of articulation? He could not know that this was one of Mary Wiley’s small, smooth habits of speech. “Then, may I give you a drink?” He pulled out his folding cup. “Please! I remember Cold Spring; I’ve been remembering it, thirstily, for the last hour.” Gravely, he knelt and rinsed his cup and filled it and carried it to her, and gravely she drank, and the stillness about them was charged and quivering. If they had been alone-- But they were not alone. The Scout called upon them in a thrilled whisper to revel with him in the spectacle of the fawn drinking from his cupped hands, and again they were grateful to him, thankful for him. They watched absorbedly while he got his hair rope from the neck of Mabel, the lady horse, and put it, shaking with excitement, about the slim little throat of the young deer. Then Ginger turned her gaze to the mountain lion, round which Rusty, the Airedale, was walking, the hair standing up in a line from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail. He was emitting low, ferocious growls. “That was a good shot,” she said, levelly. “Thank you,” said Dean Wolcott, pleasantly. “The element of surprise was the only doubt; one could hardly miss a target of that size, at that distance.” Another pause came down out of the blue and enveloped them thickly, and again the boy and the little wild beast filled up the stage. The fawn had staggered to its feet at the feel of the rope and now, refreshed by the water, by the minutes of rest, it began to battle this fresh terror. “Careful, Scout! If he gets away from you with that rope he’ll be out of luck; he’ll hang himself in the brush within an hour!” Dean’s voice was sharp. “Oh, gee--will he? Oh, golly! _Gee!_ Then--then _help_ me to let him loose!”