They rode on together, the Ranger and the Scout on Snort and the Mabel horse with the Airedale plodding sturdily behind, and soon there was tangible evidence of the red demon in the distance. The boy was stout-heartedly ready for action and the young man considered him with warm and possessive pride. Air and exercise and good food had nourished his meager little body and comradely appreciation had fed his starved soul. A very different creature, this, from the one who had come into Pfeiffer’s on the stage that day, clinging and timid, and yet the old wise women of the ranches told Dean Wolcott--“that boy’ll never make old bones,” and the doctor shook his head. “If you’d gotten hold of him two years ago--” he said once. But the Ranger refused to accept these dark forebodings; young Elmer Bunty had wriggled his way deep into his reserved affections and he had no intention of leaving a stone unturned to save him, body and brain. For a week, now, he had been revolving schemes in his mind. His San Francisco friend had written him, acknowledging receipt of the Scout’s salary for delivery to the aunt. Your Scout’s relative appeared to-day with her usual punctuality to collect the reckless wage which you are lavishing upon him, but after bestowing it in what I think she would call her safety pocket she remarked that it would be her last collecting call; she was, she stated, taking Edna and going “back east to her husband’s folks.” She has long contemplated such a step, it appears, but has been deterred by her tender consideration for the son of her sister, deceased--said Scout above mentioned. Now, however, that he is self-supporting and has found a protector--my impression is that she thinks you are not quite all there, old son--she is about to fold her tents like the Arabs. Elmer may in future keep his entire wage, she says, and saying which, departs--so thoroughly that the places which knew her, know her no more. The Edna must have been waiting for her outside my office, I gather, booted and spurred and ready to ride. Thus, in a word, you are now the only known human being to whom my measliest Scout can turn, and I earnestly urge that you continue to be as human as is Bostonly possible! Dean Wolcott had made up his mind to leave Elmer Bunty in the best California outdoor school he could find--somewhere near Santa Barbara, perhaps, or in the Santa Cruz mountains--whichever climate was best for him, and at holiday time--but his mind refused to function coolly on plans for the future. That instant’s yielding of Ginger to his insistent arms--who could say where he would be himself at holiday time? He dragged his thoughts resolutely back to the subject of his Scout. The time had come, he thought, to tell the youngster that he was going to be his guardian--he would go thoroughly into the matter with his San Francisco friend, of course.