The spacious lobby of the Mammoth Hotel near the Gardiner entrance of Yellowstone Park was the scene of an amusing spectacle. Tourists, resting in comfortable chairs in the big, sunny, white-trimmed room, found a kind of restful diversion in the demeanor of a little man who strode back and forth like a lion in its cage, occasionally pausing before the clerk’s counter to relieve himself of some pithy and vigorous comment. Away he would stride again in his strenuous roaming, now and again tacking so as to come within speaking range of a portly, elderly man, who sat with an air of grim resignation in a large rocking-chair. Here he would deliver himself of confidential observations relating to their joint interests and perplexities.

The little man had a bristly mustache which contributed to his pugnacious aspect, and his derby hat was cocked on the back of his head in a way which seemed to indicate trouble and preoccupation. His unlighted cigar, too, contributed to this effect; it seemed more a weapon than a solace sticking upward at a rakish angle out of the corner of his mouth like a miniature cannon. He seemed altogether out of place among the scattering of carefree sightseers, who rocked at ease or read magazines or addressed postcards by the thousand.

“I don’t suppose they’d pay any attention to a wire,” he observed in sudden inspiration as he paused, in his ruminating course at the clerk’s counter.

“Did you speak to the park superintendent?” one of the clerks casually asked.

“I spoke to forty-’leven superintendents,” the little man shot back as he moved away on his circling orbit. Then, as a sort of gesture of belligerence, he looked at his watch. “I’ve talked to everybody except the wild animals themselves,” he added, addressing nobody in particular. Then, reaching his grimly silent colleague, he planted himself before him, legs outstretched, a very picture of nonchalant annoyance and impatience.

“Well, there’s nothing to do but wait for a duplicate permit, I suppose,” he said. “If the grizzlies and all the other savage junk up on Mount what-d’you-call-it are as slow and clumsy as the government, we ought to be able to pose them for photos. Can you beat it? Allen says they can’t countersign an affidavit here, so there you are. You wiring for coin?”

“Oh, yes, that’s not what’s worrying me,” said the elderly man.

“What do you think about Glittering Mud? Can you beat that kid? That manager of his, Black Hawk, ought to be in Wall Street! He’d have Morgan and Rockefeller and that bunch racing for the poorhouse. Well,” he added, subsiding somewhat and seating himself beside his colleague, “we’ll just have to sit and look at Old Faithful for a couple of weeks, I suppose.”

“You saw the superintendent of the whole shebang?”

“He’s away.”

“Huh. Well, we don’t want to get into any trouble with the government. Best thing is just to wait for a new permit, I suppose.”

“’Tisn’t the best thing, it’s the only thing,” said the little man.

“I wish you’d had Billy along,” said the elder man; “he could have shot the hold-up; it would have been good stuff.”

“Yes, it would have been good stuff,” agreed the little man; “good Wild West stuff. That Bulldog—what did the conductor call him?”

“Bloodhound Pete,” said the elder man.

“He was a regular feller,” said the little man, lifting one knee over the other and smiling in a way of pleasant reminiscence; “yes, he was the real thing; he had eyes like Bill Hart’s. The conductor told me afterwards that every blamed detective Uncle Sam has has been after that gent for three years—never even got a squint at him. Nobody ever saw him except passengers and express messengers and mail car clerks. He’s an artist. Conductor told me he doesn’t make any tracks—nothing—just disappears. Once a pal squealed on him and then they thought they had him. But the pal was found shot—no tracks as usual. The man’s an artist, one of the good old Jesse James school. Regular Robin Hood! Fairbanks ought to do that guy——”

“Well, he’s set us back a couple of weeks I suppose,” said the elder man, “and a thousand dollars.”

“It’s the couple of weeks I’m thinking of,” said the other. “I’d give another thousand to get down to business.”

His mood of impatience and annoyance seemed to return, and he allowed himself to slide down in his chair so far that the chair-back pushed against the brim of his hat and tilted it forward at an angle which somehow suggested the last extremity of disgust and perplexity.