"Oh! how happy I would be, if I only had my jolly old music maker guitar along."
"Budge, will you ever let up on that moan? I'm sick of hearing the same thing over and over again. Why, Alec and Jack and me, we're shaking hands with ourselves every day, just because we've got you muzzled, for once."
"Muzzled— who, me? Goodness gracious! Freckles, whatever do you mean?"
The fat boy, whom his companion had called Budge, actually raised a hand to his face, as though he expected to find some sort of iron cage, like the mask of a baseball catcher fastened there.
Freckles, whose name at home in Staunton was Ambrose Codling, chuckled, as though it really pleased him to give the stout boy a little scare.
They were seated beside a swift flowing stream away up in that wonderland of the Great Northwest, which the Government guards jealously under the name of the Yellowstone Park Reservation.
This country takes in a vast stretch of choice territory bordering the famous Rocky Mountains. Within the guarded district are nearly all the marvelous spouting geysers, and similar objects of interest that annually cause thousands of curious tourists to journey that way.
Besides, within the precincts of the Park wild game of many kinds is protected by every possible device. Soldiers have jurisdiction there, and Government game wardens do the best they can to keep out trespassers, whether poachers of the human breed, or deer, killing wolves, panthers or wildcats.
Close to where Budge and his tantalizing companion sat, could be seen a number of up-to-date motorcycles that gave evidence of being travel stained, though in good serviceable condition still.
As there were just four of these machines parked in a bunch, it was evident that these two boys had comrades close at hand, undoubtedly the Alec and Jack mentioned by Freckles.