“I bet you’re just selling things to tourists,” said Westy. “I bet you’re bringing a lot of souvenirs of Yellowstone Park from New York to sell out here.” “Yes, and how about you?” the stranger asked. “We’re sent by the Rotary Club,” said Warde, “because we did three things to win the award.” The traveling man cocked his head sideways and listened in a humorously skeptical way which was very annoying. “You found somebody who was lost in the woods?” he queried. “No, we didn’t find somebody who was lost in the woods,” Warde said somewhat testily. “No? Well then they sent you because you’re the only three boy scouts that haven’t done that. I congratulate you, here’s my hand.” “This fellow, Westy Martin,” said Warde, “killed a deer that somebody else had shot because he wanted to put it out of its suffering and he let people think he was the one that shot it; he did that so they wouldn’t punish the other person. But it was found out so they gave him the good turn award. This other fellow put out a forest fire and I took a long hike and got a job for somebody. So now what are you doing out here? You didn’t even tell us your name.” “Well, that’s very nice,” said their acquaintance; “my name is Madison C. Wilde and I’m mixed up with the Educational Films——” “You’re in the movies?” shouted Ed. “Just at present,” said Mr. Madison C. Wilde. “I’m in the business of getting snap-shots of wild animals to show you fellows when you happen to have thirty cents to buy a ticket. Anything else you’d like to know?” “I’d like to know if you’re really going up on that mountain, Pelican Cove, like you said,” Westy asked. “What do you suppose I’ve been hanging around Washington, D. C. for the last two weeks for?” Mr. Wilde asked. “I’d rather stalk grizzlies on Pelican Cone than stalk National Park Directors in Washington. I’d rather go after pictures than permits, I can tell you that if anybody should ask you. Grizzlies are bad enough, but park directors”—he shook his head in despair—“that bunch in Washington,” and shook his head again. The boys stared at him. In their minds the pursuit of wild animals, for whatever purpose, was associated with buckskin and cartridge-laden belts. Yet here was a little man with a bristly mustache whose only weapon was an unlighted cigar innocently pointing toward heaven. They had already imbibed enough of the atmosphere of the legendary west to be somewhat shocked at the thought of this brisk, little man, with all the prosaic atmosphere of the city about him, going into the wilds to stalk grizzlies. He did not seem at all like Buffalo Bill. “Gee whiz!” ejaculated Westy. “I thought you were a salesman or something like that.”