“With the exception of the Declaration of Independence,” said Mr. Wilde, “this is the most valuable paper in the world.”

He handed it to Westy and the three boys, reading it together, saw that it was a permit issued by the director of the National Park Service at Washington to Mr. Alexander Creston, President of the Educational Film Company of New York to “dispatch employees of said Educational Film Company into such remote sections of the Yellowstone National Park as should be designated by the local park authorities for the purpose of securing photographs of the wild life, the use of traps and firearms being strictly prohibited. This permit expires——” And so forth and so forth. It concluded with the signature of the director of the National Park Service.

“Gee williger!” said Westy.

“Talking about stalking!” said Ed.

“No wonder you laugh at us,” said Warde.

“Did you ever try stalking officials in Washington?” Mr. Wilde asked.

“We never stalked anything but robins and—and turtles and things like that,” said Warde with a note of self-disgust in his voice.

“Never hit the red tape trail, hey? Well I guess turtles are pretty near as slow as Washington officials. I’ve been just exactly three weeks in Washington stalking this permit. Pretty good specimen, hey? That’s more valuable than any grizzly, that is.” He gazed at it with a look of whimsical affection and tucked it safely away in his wallet.

“It makes us feel kind of silly,” said Westy, “to think of the kind of things you’re going to do. I guess it’s no wonder you make fun of us.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Wilde not unkindly and with some approach to seriousness in his voice and manner, “you scout kids are all right. You get lots of fresh air and exercise and they’re the best things for you. You go stalking June-bugs and caterpillars and it keeps you out of mischief. It’s just the difference between the amateur and the professional. Now you kids go in for these things as a pastime and that’s all right. You’re having the time of your lives. I’m for the boy scouts first, last and always. Stalking, tracking, etc., you make games out of all those things, and they’re bully good games too. You’re a pretty wide-awake bunch. But you’ll never do these things in a serious way because you don’t have to. Get me?”

“We don’t get a chance,” said Westy.

“Now you take a kid born out in the wilds—like this kid I’ve got waiting for me—Stove Polish or whatever his name is; he’s an Indian.”

“Who?” said Westy.

“What?” said Warde.

“Stove Polish?” gasped Ed.

“Shining Sun his name is,” said Mr. Wilde. “Sounds like some kind of stove polish so I call him Stove Polish——”

“Where is he?” Westy asked, all excitement.

“He’s waiting out at the Mammoth Hotel at Hot Springs with Mr. Creston; you’ll see him. He’s going up in the mountains with Clip and me. Now that kid is what you’d call a scout, the little rascal. He had to be a scout or starve. He didn’t read his little book and raise up his hand and say he was going to be a scout. He just got to be a scout because he had to.

“When you’re in the Rocky Mountains a couple of hundred miles from the nearest town and the nearest town consists of one house, why, it’s a case of you or the Rocky Mountains—which wins. See? If you stay lost you starve. If you don’t know the signs you’re out of luck. If you don’t know what herbs to eat you don’t get any dinner. If you can’t tell where to look for a cave by the looks of the land, why then, you stay out in the rain and snow. See? If you haven’t got a gun the only way you can catch a bird is to fool him. So he knows how to fool them. You fellows are scouts because you want to have a lot of fun. But Stove Polish is a scout because he wants to live; he has to be one, or he did have to up to a year or two ago. He knows how to run without making a sound because if he made a sound it would be all up with him.”

“You said it,” enthused Warde.

“Why, a couple of years or more ago,” continued Mr. Wilde, “when that little rascal escaped from the Cheyenne reservation right back here a few miles, he got into the mountains and nobody heard a word from him for a year and a half—never even sent a post card saying he was having a nice time or anything. Beaver Pete found him up in the mountains and brought him down to Yellowstone and Mr. Creston snapped him up like a used Cadillac. Well now, that kid is a full-blooded Cheyenne Indian; he’s a grandson of old Stick-in-the-mud who was in the Custer scrap. You’ve heard of that old geezer, haven’t you?

“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.”