Again Westy paused in frightful suspense. He knew that these men would not give him the advantage by calling, “Who’s there?” In another second he might be dead. Would he hear the shot, he wondered. Does a person who is shot hear the shot that lays him low? Would he know if he were shot—in the head?

He paused, unable to move a muscle, haunted by these ghastly thoughts. Some one was evidently awake and listening. Should he risk it and take another step? Suppose a twig should crackle. If he took a long stride he might possibly lose his balance. It seemed to him that his very breathing could be heard, that those ruffians could count his heart-beats.

He put one foot forward, felt softly of the ground with his bare foot, pressed the uncertain earth a little, then took another step and felt that he had removed himself still farther from peril. There was no sound, and he indulged the hope that the cough and the stirring had been in sleep.

He took several strides now and each was like a stimulant to him. He would not relax his caution, each step must be well considered, but he believed that he was moving in safety. He was, perhaps, fifteen feet from the tree, and his hope ran high. He began to think of his escape in the past tense and rejoiced in his achievement. If only his friends would not shout. . . .

Well, that was a narrow escape. He would always, he reflected, have something to tell. It had been like an evil dream; he could not bring himself to believe the reality of it. How his mother would shudder when he told her. But he would laugh and say, “All’s well that ends well.” He would say, “I’m here anyway.” Probably Doris would not be too ready to believe him, and Charlie——

Then suddenly Westy thought of something. He was far enough from the tree now to think calmly, and in the flush and elation of his achievement, a rather chilling thought came to him. Is there any triumph in escape? Can any one who is running from peril ever think of himself in a heroic light? Skillful such a thing might be. But after all is it a thing to tell about with pride?

Certainly, Westy bethought him, it was not a thing to tell with pride to Mr. Madison C. Wilde, if he should ever meet that Philistine again. To tell Mr. Wilde that he, Westy Martin, Boy Scout of America, had been within a dozen feet of that portly wallet, had even heard it spoken of! No, he could not do that. Of course he would have to tell of this affair, but he devoutly hoped that Mr. Wilde would be gone from the Mammoth Hotel at Hot Springs before he and his companions arrived.

He pictured to himself the way that Mr. Wilde would cock his head sideways in a manner of critical attention and screw his cigar over to the corner of his mouth as he listened to the heroic narrative in which would figure the whereabouts of his wallet. It seemed that this sagacious little man must be always haunting poor Westy. He had well nigh ruined his carefree young life with his homily on scouting that isn’t. And now here he was again, a terrible specter with a cigar and a derby hat, stalking behind him and saying, “What you have to do, you do.”

That was in reference to the scouting and wilderness miracles of Shining Sun. He had done things because he had had to do them or starve. Well, thought sober Westy, if disgrace is the alternative, it is just as bad. This sophisticated little stranger, Mr. Wilde, loomed up before him now and took the edge off a very credible achievement in scouting—escaping from train robbers in the Rockies.

Achievement! Westy had read about masterly retreats. They were conducted by military strategists, but not by heroes. They were skillful but not brave. To be a scout you must have the stuff that heroes are made of. And to be a hero you must do something, you must be brave. What you have to do, you do. Westy Martin knew in his heart what his job was. There was nothing glorious in running away from his job, however silently and fleetly he ran. If he was going to be a scout he must do his good turn. You cannot do a good turn to yourself. A good turn is like a quarrel, in a sense. It requires two people.

He might get away from these robbers, but he could not get away from Mr. Madison C. Wilde.