immediately apparent to the Scouts, for the motel buildings were run-down and in need of paint. The pine grove and camp site at the rear did not look too attractive, either. “How about it, boys?” Mr. Livingston asked doubtfully. “Oh, it may not be so bad,” Jack replied. “We’re all tired, so let’s hole in.” The others agreed. Accordingly, Mr. Livingston drove up close to the office. He and Jack went inside to register for the group. An old man who wore a soiled Stetson hat sat tipped back comfortably in a chair. His big heavy boots came down from the desk, and he squinted at them with watery blue eyes which were bright and sharp. “Howdy!” Mr. Livingston returned the hearty greeting and inquired about a camp site. “Sure, we’ve got plenty o’ room for you,” the old man replied. He dug into the old-fashioned roll-top desk for a registry book. “How many in your party?” “Five. We won’t need a cabin—only space for our two tents.” “That’ll cost you two bucks for the night.” The old man thrust a pen at the Scout leader. All the while, he was studying Jack’s green uniform with the “BSA” strip over the right shirt pocket. “Here in Rocking Horse we don’t ask a man where’s he going, or where he’s been,” he drawled. “But danged if I’m not curious about that BSA on your pocket. Reckon it means Better Stay Away.” “It stands for Boy Scouts of America,” Jack explained. “Are you the motel owner?” “Not me.” The old man stretched out a calloused hand to take the two dollar bills Mr. Livingston offered. “These diggin’s are owned by a hard-fisted hombre by the name o’ Jarrett Walz.” “You don’t like him?” Mr. Livingston asked, mildly amused at the old-timer. “Didn’t say so, did I? Walz gives me my grub and a cabin for lookin’ after this place. When you’re pushing eighty and have a bad ticker, you’re not too particular.” Jack and Mr. Livingston regarded the old man with new interest and respect. Despite shaggy white hair and a weather-beaten face, he did not look more than seventy, for his muscles were firm and his stooping shoulders