Maybe you’ll be sorry I can’t go to Yellowstone Park because I had to do something else with my money. Dad says for me to forget about going to Yellowstone. This article shows you how, sort of, I will go anyway probably. Because in a scout troop all the scouts are sort of like one scout so if Hollie goes it will almost be the same as if I went, and I’ll hear all about it anyway. So please don’t feel sorry because I can’t go to the Yellowstone. I had a dandy time at the farm. Give my regards to Ira. Westy. When Ira had finished his unauthorized perusal he lighted his pipe. Ira could smoke and do anything else at the same time—except read. Reading required all his effort and when he read, his pipe always took advantage of his preoccupation to go out. When he had relighted it, he stuffed his hands as far down as possible in his trousers pockets and went out and gazed at the landscape. But he did not care anything about the landscape. “He’s—one—all round—little—prince,” he mused aloud. “_He’s jes one nat’ral born little prince!_ They don’t make ’em, that scout club, them as is like that jes has ter be born that way. By gol, I’d like ter know what the little rascal act’ally did do.” He came to the conclusion that what the little rascal had actually done was to collaborate with Luke Meadows in the adventurous exploit of killing the deer and then allowed himself to be frightened into assuming all the guilt and paying the fine. Ira was artless enough, and ignorant enough of scouting, to believe that this in itself would constitute a claim upon the Rotary Club of Bridgeboro. “I ain’t gon to see no kid gon out to the Yellowstone without them gents knowin’ ’bout this here,” mused Ira. “I’m a-gon ter look inter this mess summat. I ain’t satisfied with the looks o’ things.” For a few minutes longer he stood, his back against the house, smoking and considering. Then, delving into the abysmal depths of his trousers pocket he disinterred a formidable nickel watch which was innocent of chain or cord. He had exchanged a carved whale’s tooth for it in some oriental sea town and it was his pride and boast. If Ira himself had always been as regular as this miniature town clock no one would have complained. “I got jes about enough time ter ketch the six-twenty from Dawson’s,” he said. “I’m gone ter hev a look at this here Bridgeboro.” This was as far as he was willing to commit himself. He would go in the rôle of idle tourist. There remained only one thing to do and that was to saunter out to the kitchen porch and reach his outlandish felt hat down from the peg which had been intended for a milk pail. If he had been going to South Africa, he would have done no more than this. But he did pay Bridgeboro the tribute of banging his hat against a porch stanchion to knock the loose dust out of it. Then he sauntered up the road toward Dawson’s.