“You going to send an account of it to the Boy Scout Magazine?”
“No, I’m not.”
“No?”
There followed a pause. Then Mr. Wilde very deliberately pulled out the memorable wallet, placed it flat on his lap and laid it open.
“Was everything all right—all there?” Warde asked.
No answer. Westy leaned against the dresser, kicking one foot nervously. Somewhere within easy hearing an orchestra was playing the Three O’Clock in the Morning Waltz. It seemed odd to be hearing this in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains. Westy could hear the sound of dancing. He felt tenderly of the long scratch on his bare leg. He dropped the towel which lay over his shoulder. Ed Carlyle sat up on top of the high dresser, his legs dangling. Warde, sitting on the edge of another bed, kept time with the plaintive music, drumming with his fingers.
Oddly enough, Westy felt almost as nervous and apprehensive as when he had let himself silently down out of the big elm. No one spoke. Every one seemed to be waiting.
And Mr. Wilde was distressingly slow and deliberate.
CHAPTER XXXI
NO ESCAPE
At length Mr. Wilde spoke. “Mr. Creston thinks that you kids should be suitably rewarded. Do you want to fix a price or do you want to leave it to me? You did a big thing—he thinks we ought to consider the three of you as one.”