But Elmer Bunty broke the silence, before he had formulated his plan of announcement. “Ranger--say, I don’t guess Edna could call me ’Fraid-Cat now, could she?-- Riding to a forest fire’n everything?” “She could not, Scout,” said Dean, cordially. This was an excellent opening. “And speaking of Edna----” The boy appeared not to have heard him. “Ranger,” he said shyly, “do you think I--oh, not yet, but _some_time--do you think I’ll be--not just a good Scout, but--but like men call each other--‘_a good scout_’? You know how they say, ‘He’s a good scout’? Do you guess I ever will, Ranger?” “I guess you _will_,” said Dean Wolcott, roundly. “I consider you a ‘good scout’ now.” “Honest-to-goodness, Ranger?” He flushed so riotously that even his flanging ears grew rosy. “Cross-your-heart-hope-never-to-see-the-back- of-your-neck?” The Ranger nodded gravely. “In speaking of you to a friend I feel I should be certain to use that term. ‘Who is this fellow Bunty you’re always talking about?’ some one might say to me, and I would say, ‘Oh, he’s a great friend of mine,’ and then if the other fellow said, ‘What sort of a person is he?’-- I should without hesitation reply, ‘He’s a good scout; he’s--a _good scout_!’” Elmer Bunty was silent from pure pleasure; it fairly pulsated from him. He leaned forward and put his arms warmly about the neck of the lady horse, and then he leaned down out of the saddle (much as the Indians did, he firmly believed) and petted Rusty. “And, feeling that way,” said Dean Wolcott, “it’s going to be pretty hard for me just to shake hands with you and let you go, when your vacation is over, and my time here in the Big Sur.” “I know,” said the boy, soberly. “But we can write each other postcards and maybe letters, can’t we, Ranger? And maybe, next summer----” “How would you like to--well, belong to me, Scout? If it can be arranged-- I mean, not go back to your aunt and cousin, but stay with me, and go to one of those mountain schools and have a horse to ride--all that sort of thing? Take a trip east with me, and see the Grand Cañon on the way, and perhaps Niagara”--he turned to look at him. Elmer Bunty’s face was white under its hasty coat of tan, and his eyes were wide. “Oh, gee!” he breathed, “Oh, gee--_golly_!” Then the light went swiftly out of him. “It would be great, Ranger, but I don’t guess I could. I don’t guess I could leave my Aunt Lizzie and Edna.” “But if they--” He shook his head. He was very regretful, but very firm about it. “You see, I’m the only male person there is in the family, and they depend on me an awful lot. Even if we asked them, and they said they would let me go with you, I don’t guess I could; I’d know they were just _pretending_ they didn’t need me!” His flat chest swelled visibly at the thought. Then he thought hungrily of the glories that might be his. “Do they honest-to-goodness let you have a _horse_ at those schools, Ranger?” “They honest-to-goodness do, Scout.”