“Well, sir, that kid could call like a hawk and bring the hawk near enough so he could drop it with a stone—_absolutely_. Beaver Pete told me that when he found that kid in the trapping season he was wearing a bearskin from a bear he had caught and killed without so much as a bean-shooter. Nature couldn’t freeze him or starve him. He could find water by instinct same as an animal does. You see, boys, what you _have_ to do you can do. There is no such thing as scouting in the midst of civilization or in neighbor Smith’s woods. Scouts are scouts because they _have_ to be scouts; it isn’t an outdoor sport. A scout is a fellow who has fought _because he had to fight_ with nature and has won out. Scouts are silent people as a rule, I’ve met some of them. They’re taciturn and silent. The boy scouts are the noisiest bunch I ever met in my life.” The door at the end of the car opened and the voice of a trainman put an end to Mr. Wilde’s talk. “Emigrant. The next stop is Emigrant.” CHAPTER XXXVII PARLOR SCOUTS The three winners of the Rotary Club award were not altogether cheered by the talk of their traveling acquaintance. They felt a trifle ashamed and dissatisfied with themselves. Here was a brisk, resourceful, adventurous man whose vocation seemed a very dream of romance. And he looked upon them as nice boys playing an interesting game. He did not take them seriously. He regarded Shining Sun (or Stove Polish as he preferred to call him) as a rare discovery—a real, all around, dyed-in-the-wool, little scout, a scout whose skill and lore could be used in adventurous undertakings. Amateurs! Nice boys! And they were about to have their reward of merit for three exploits, the recital of which had not exactly staggered Mr. Wilde. They were going to drive around Yellowstone Park in autos and stop at the hotels and visit modern, well-equipped camps, and see the petrified forests and the geysers. And meanwhile an Indian boy was going into the unfrequented depths of the vast park to do for white men what they could not do for themselves. Descendent of savages though he was, and with the primitive vein persisting in him, they took him seriously, these men; he was a real little scout. Not a boy scout. These were the thoughts, the reflections, of Westy Martin as he arose saying in a rather disheartened tone, “Come on, let’s go out on the platform and watch the scenery.” The three boys staggered through the aisle of the car holding to the seat backs as the rushing train swerved in its winding course among the mountains. They had been but visitors in the smoking car and now in the one next it they came to their own seats, which at night had been transformed into berths.