Was it any wonder that Westy was disgusted? Was it any wonder that in face of these startling revelations he began to see himself as just a nice sort of boy from Bridgeboro, New Jersey? A back-yard scout? Truly, indeed, there were two Yellowstone Parks! Truly, indeed, thought poor Westy, there were two kinds of scouts. And he, alas, was the other kind. CHAPTER IV THE CHANCE COMES Then it was that Westy Martin, thoroughly disgusted with fate and thoroughly dissatisfied with himself and boy scouting generally, arose, just as the trainman called out: “_Emigrant! Emigrant is the next stop!_” And Westy Martin, leading the way, went headlong into the adventurous field of “big scouting”—never knowing it. The three of them sat down disconsolately on one of the steps of the rear platform of the last car while the train paused at Emigrant, a deserted hamlet almost small enough to put in one’s pocket. Warde and Ed had followed Westy through the several cars, not fully sharing his mood, but obedient to him as leader. They made a doleful little trio, these fine boys who had been given a trip to the Yellowstone Park by the Rotary Club of America in recognition of a heroic good turn which each had done. Alas, that this glib stranger, Mr. Wilde, and that other unknown hero, Shining Sun, the Indian boy, should have destroyed, as it were with one fell blow, their wholesome enjoyment of scouting and their happy anticipations. Poor Westy. I must relate for you the conversation of these three as they sat in disgruntled retirement on the rear platform of the last car nursing their envy of Shining Sun. “I remind myself of Pee-wee Harris tracking a hop-toad,” grouched Westy. “Just the same we’ve had a lot of fun since we’ve been in the scouts,” said Warde. “If we hadn’t been scouts we wouldn’t be here.” “We’ll be looking at geysers and hot springs and things while _they’re_ tracking grizzlies,” said Westy. “We’re boy scouts all right! Gee whiz, I’d like to do something _big_.” “Just because Mr. Wilde says this and that——” Ed Carlyle began. “Suppose he had gone to Scout headquarters in New York for a scout to help him in the mountains,” said Westy. “Would he have found one? When it comes to dead serious business——” “Look what Roosevelt said about Boy Scouts,” cheered Warde. “He said they were a lot of help and that scouting is a peach of a thing, that’s just what he said.” “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Wilde that?” Ed asked. “Because I didn’t think of it,” said Warde. “Just because I got the tracking badge that doesn’t mean I’m a professional scout like Buffalo Bill,” said Ed. “We’ve had plenty of fun and we’re going to see the sights out in Yellowstone.” “While _they’re_ scouting—doing something big,” grouched Westy. “We should worry about them,” said Ed.