“Well, that’s very nice,” said their acquaintance; “my name is Madison C. Wilde and I’m mixed up with the Educational Films——”
“You’re in the movies?” shouted Ed.
“Just at present,” said Mr. Madison C. Wilde. “I’m in the business of getting snap-shots of wild animals to show you fellows when you happen to have thirty cents to buy a ticket. Anything else you’d like to know?”
“I’d like to know if you’re really going up on that mountain, Pelican Cove, like you said,” Westy asked.
“What do you suppose I’ve been hanging around Washington, D. C. for the last two weeks for?” Mr. Wilde asked. “I’d rather stalk grizzlies on Pelican Cone than stalk National Park Directors in Washington. I’d rather go after pictures than permits, I can tell you that if anybody should ask you. Grizzlies are bad enough, but park directors”—he shook his head in despair—“that bunch in Washington,” and shook his head again.
The boys stared at him. In their minds the pursuit of wild animals, for whatever purpose, was associated with buckskin and cartridge-laden belts. Yet here was a little man with a bristly mustache whose only weapon was an unlighted cigar innocently pointing toward heaven. They had already imbibed enough of the atmosphere of the legendary west to be somewhat shocked at the thought of this brisk, little man, with all the prosaic atmosphere of the city about him, going into the wilds to stalk grizzlies. He did not seem at all like Buffalo Bill.
“Gee whiz!” ejaculated Westy. “I thought you were a salesman or something like that.”
Mr. Madison C. Wilde gave him a whimsical look and proceeded to draw forth from an inside pocket a mammoth wallet while the three boys stared speechless. Could this man be just fooling them? The wallet was formidable enough to stagger any grizzly. It was bulging with money, which to the boys seemed to confirm the stranger’s connection with the movies, where fabulous sums are possessed and handed about. Mr. Wilde was as deliberate with his wallet as any hunter of the woolly west could possibly have been with his gun. He screwed his cigar over to the end of his mouth, tilted it to an almost vertical position, then closing one eye he explored the caves and fastnesses of his wallet with the other.
His quest eventually resulted in the capture of a paper which he brought forth out of a veritable jungle of bills and documents. “Here we are,” said he, tenderly unfolding the document.