At Turquois Pool the Secretary held Charlie over the edge, where the lad could test the temperature of the water, which he found to be warmer than it looked. He declined an invitation to bathe therein, having a youngster's prejudice against boiled boy.

The mule teams which took the party through in record time were a source of

joy to Charlie. He rode up front always alongside the "mule skinner," the man with the whip, who could, were he that sort of person, easily flay the animals with the terrible lash he wields. He explained to Charlie, however, that he used it merely to keep the flies off his pets. He pointed out a fly to the youngster one afternoon as the party was going up hill, and said:

"Just you watch, kid, and see me pick that

Secretary Taft

Senator Carter
M. Young, Superintendent G. W. Childs, Supt. of Transportation

insect off the leader's left ear"; then out over the leader's head there was a report such as the old muzzle-loader made in the days of Leather-Stocking.

"What'd I tell yer!" said the mule skinner. I can do that every time."

"Whew!" exclaimed Charlie, "That's a dead fly all right."

"They die instantly I hit 'em," replied the driver.

Fish abound in Yellowstone, though at times they are a little shy. Charlie had heard of catching a fish in the lake, and, without moving even one step, swing it round into a pool where it would be boiled alive. Charlie spent three hours, nearly, at the edge of the lake, for he has remarkable persistence,

but the fishes evidently had been forwarned and would not carry out the part of the program Charlie had allotted to them in his "stunt." Finally, it being well past lunch time, he returned regretfully to the Lake House.

"Did you cook a fish, my son?" asked the Secretary.

"No sir," replied Charlie, "but the sun cooked me all right."

CHAPTER V.

W

E were on board at Seattle and glad to be there-looking over the rail at the crowd and talking of our experiences thus far on our tour of the world.

Several bits of conversation were wafted to us from the wharf as we were casting loose.

"It's just like launching a Dreadnought, ain't it?" queried a bystander, as Taft went up the Minnesota's gangplank, shaking hands and waving his last adieus.

"Reminds me of a great big, fine-looking fighting-ship, Taft does," remarked another. "He ain't getting worried about little things; you don't see him unlimbering his guns for