It is not necessary to tell you that this greatly harassed little man was none other than our traveling acquaintance, Mr. Madison C. Wilde, who had cast such a gloomy shadow in the young life of Westy Martin. He had emerged from one of the most harrowing experiences a traveler may have, without discredit to his pluck, but with a very heavy strain upon his temper.

His cigar, which was a sort of barometer of his mood, stood in an almost vertical position as he sat upon his back in the chair, his face (what could be seen of it under his tilted hat) lost in a brown study. His companion was Mr. Alexander Creston, owner of Educational Films. Wild life as it is, upon the screen.

Mr. Wilde attracted a good deal of attention for two reasons, and several boys among the resting tourists hovered as near as they dared and gazed at him. For one thing, he was connected with the movies. Also he was the victim of a daring hold-up, had been face to face with a desperate character, a man crowned with a halo of mystery, a famed outlaw whom no awestruck boy had ever seen. These boys could not see this fabled terror, so they stood about gazing at the man who had been one of his victims. Mr. Wilde shone by the reflected light of Bloodhound Pete.

The other victims of the hold-up had gone upon their sightseeing tours very much shaken by their experience of the previous morning. Of all that hapless company only Mr. Wilde remained, stranded in the Mammoth Hotel at Mammoth Hot Springs, with nothing to do but wait for the machinery at Washington to grind him out another permit. Mr. Creston, who likewise waited, had wired for money to replace the very considerable sum which the bandits had taken. Billy, the camera man, who with Mr. Creston had awaited the arrival of Mr. Wilde, also rested at the Mammoth Hotel in enforced idleness.

To have encountered Bloodhound Pete, the mysterious, unseen terror of Wyoming, conferred a certain prestige even upon his victim. And so the boys who happened to be about gazed in awe at the figure of Mr. Wilde whose posture, eloquent of preoccupation and annoyance, discouraged them from questioning him.

But one likely looking boy in natty scout attire, whose mother was conducting a masterly post card assault against her distant friends, ventured to address the harassed and forbidding personage who had been vouchsafed the glory of seeing the modern Robin Hood.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, I’ll be glad to do it,” the boy said. It required some temerity to say even that much. “If you want me to go to the superintendent’s office or something?”

This altogether scoutish proffer of service caught Mr. Wilde in a mood not calculated to receive it kindly. No doubt his vexation was natural. At first he did not answer at all, then, looking at the Boy Scout in a way of surly half-interest, he said in a tone quite unworthy of his usual bantering cordiality.

“No, sir, absolutely nothing. There’s nothing that any of you kids can do for me. So you might as well all chase out of here and see the park instead of standing around gaping. Come on, beat it now!”

The group scattered.

“Kids around here are a blamed nuisance,” Mr. Wilde observed to his companion.

“I wish we could find a nice, likely youngster to take up yonder,” said Mr. Creston.

“Huh—yes—I should think,” muttered Mr. Wilde. “And who’d go along as nurse girl?”

“I’d go along as nurse girl,” said a cheery voice. Mr. Wilde looked up and beheld the funny, smiling countenance of Ed Carlyle.