If every laughing face in that audience had not been directed at the genial speaker who had captivated all, perhaps some might have noticed the boy who sat in silence looking wistfully at the speaker and listening intently. As Mr. Atwater passed on to more serious talk, that boy’s attention seemed to concentrate and become tense. He saw neither Roy on his right hand, nor Warde Hollister on his left, only the stage and the speaker, and he seemed to be in a sort of trance. Only once did he speak and that was when (under the spell of some alluring phrase of the speaker’s) he said to Warde, “I hope you do get it, it’s our troop.” Then he said to himself. “If it isn’t my trip it’s my troop.” Further than this, no one, not even the restless and whispering Pee-wee, could draw his attention from the speaker. “The Yellowstone National Park,” Mr. Atwater continued, “is Uncle Sam’s great playground. There you are welcome. The geysers jump up when they see you coming; the grizzly bears hug you to death. (Laughter.) You can shoot the rapids but you can’t shoot anything else. You can leave your gun at home, young fellow, because that wonderland belongs to the deer just as much as it belongs to you. You can’t kill deer in the Yellowstone.” Westy winced. Was the speaker looking at him? Of course not—foolish, sensitive boy.... “Now, one of you scouts is going out to the Yellowstone next summer, on the Rotary Club of Bridgeboro. The amount of money you will have to take is just _not one cent_! You’re going to stay there for a month and bang around—all expenses paid. You’re going to come back and say that old Uncle Sam has some back-yard to play in. (Laughter.) You’re going to get onto a friendly basis with forest rangers and bears, and deer, and trout fishing and what all. No medal! No gewgaw to sew on your sleeve! No gold piece to buy candy with! Just a trip to Uncle Sam’s Wonderland, the Yellowstone National Park! (Great applause.) “Now who is going to have this trip? Six gentlemen and four ladies have decided and they’re all here on the platform. (Applause.) And they did the best they could to decide. It becomes my duty now to announce the winner of this award. Edwin Carlisle of the Second Westboro Troop will please stand up.” CHAPTER XXXI SHOOTIN’ UP THE MEETIN’ A tense silence prevailed. Pee-wee gasped, speechless. Even the exuberant Roy stared. “_What do—you—know—about—that!_” Doc Carson whispered to Artie Van Arlen. As Westy had been staring spellbound all along, no turn in his thoughts was visible in his features. Warde Hollister, of all the boys in the troop, seemed unperturbed. Level-headed and sensible scout that he was, he had let the others do the hoping, and the shouting. “We don’t get it,” whispered Dorry Benton. “Look!” whispered Wig Weigand to Warde.