That evening Tom Gray gave them a talk on the Yellowstone Lake. He said the lake was about a mile and a half above the level of the sea, having an area of one hundred and thirty-nine square miles, the average depth being thirty feet, although in places it was said to be three hundred feet deep.
“Yes, few lakes in the world surpass it in either area, altitude or beauty,” added Tom Gray. “Where else will you find ice-cold water on the one hand and boiling hot on the other, both easily reached by the stretching out of the hands at one and the same time?”
“I know,” cried Stacy. “Ask me something harder.”
“Well, where, Mr. Smarty?” demanded Nora.
Stacy confessed that he didn’t know, but that he was certain he could think of a place if he were to ponder long enough.
“Don’t try it,” warned Emma. “For your information, Stacy Brown, outside the kitchen stove in winter time you will find the ice water, and the boiling water inside,” Emma informed him amid peals of laughter.
At this juncture, Hippy rose to make a speech.
“We find ourselves amid scenes of almost overpowering beauty,” he began.
“Present company excepted,” muttered Stacy.
“Mountains tower thousands of feet above the surface of the lake, the latter being fed almost wholly by the springs and snows of the—of the Absaroka Range, the mountains forming a picturesque background to the shores of the lake, and—and—” Hippy’s voice died away.