“THOMAS Seabury!” cried Bob and Joe almost in one breath, recognizing the man from a picture his brother had shown them in Mombasa.

They scrambled down the ladder in all haste, forgetting danger, forgetting everything.

“My name!” the man exclaimed in a bewildered voice. “How, may I ask, did you young men get hold of it?”

Mr. Seabury was rather a small man, with long gray hair and a heavy beard. His fine face bore the look of a scholar.

“We’ve been hunting for you,” Joe told him. “Your brother, back in Mombasa, asked us to be on the lookout for you.”

“Then—he is not here?”

“No,” returned Bob. He did not think it wise to add that George Seabury had been injured by a rhino. “He couldn’t come with us, but we promised to be on watch for you.”

The man reeled as if to fall. Then he got a grip on himself.

“At last,” he murmured, breathing heavily, “I have seen a white person.”

“Were you lost?” inquired Joe.

“Lost, yes. And worse than lost,” returned Mr. Seabury grimly. “I was captured by hostile savages and was about to be sacrificed in their horrid rites. But I managed to slip off in the night and escape from their village. It was a horrible experience—wandering through this trackless forest. I had given myself up for lost when I happened to find this hut. Who built it I do not know. But it had food stored away, and I ate it at once.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Joe. “In this vicinity, I mean.”

“Only two days,” Seabury replied. “Though it seems more like two years. I held not the slightest hope of seeing any white person. In fact, I fully expected to die a slow death from hunger. But now,” he continued in a lighter tone, “I am saved.”

“It was just luck that we found you,” Bob said. “My friend here—— Wait. Pardon us for not introducing ourselves. This is Joe Lewis, and my name is Holton—Bob Holton.”

Thomas Seabury extended a hand, which the youths clasped warmly.

“As I was saying,” resumed Bob, “Joe happened to see this ant hill. We came over to investigate.”

“I am only too thankful that you did,” the man said. “But how did you happen to be here? What are you doing in Africa?”

“We’re with our dads,” Joe told him. “Came to collect specimens of wild animals and birds. And now, Mr. Seabury, suppose we go back to camp. That is, if you’re ready.”

“I am more than ready,” was the answer. “Camp is a word that sounds better to me than ’most any I can think of.”

They found the two natives waiting. The latter displayed unusual surprise at seeing another white man in that vast jungle. Mr. Seabury fell to talking with them, telling them in their own language of his experience.

Back at camp, which they finally reached, Mr. Lewis and Mr. Holton met them.

“But look who we’ve found,” said Joe happily. “Thomas Seabury.”

“Well, what in the——” Mr. Lewis could hardly believe his eyes, while Bob’s father was no less surprised.

Joe introduced Mr. Seabury to the naturalists and then told of how he and his chum had found the missing man.

“Good for you, boys,” praised Mr. Holton. “If you hadn’t found him, perhaps he wouldn’t have been found.”

“I wonder if I am dreaming,” said Mr. Seabury. “If I am, I never want to wake up.”

The youths’ fathers spent the remainder of the day in telling of their experiences since leaving Mombasa and in listening to Seabury’s.

But the next morning all were up early preparing for an extensive hunt for specimens. Bob and Joe with their cameras, and the scientists with their rifles, left camp and headed southward, with several of the bearers following.

They had not gone far when they became aware of a deep drumming noise, which seemed to roll along the ground.

“What’s that?” asked Bob, becoming worried. “Savages?”

Mr. Seabury, who was with them, nodded.

“I have often heard the noise,” he said, “and I believe it is made by natives. But they are probably a great distance off. I don’t believe we are in any danger.”

All during the hunt the adventurers could hear the deep vibrating of drums, but as it seemed to get no nearer they thought no more about it.

Back at camp they saw a group of strange natives, their faces streaked with white paint, talking with Noko and the bearers. At first the explorers hesitated to move on into camp for fear that trouble was at hand. But they finally concluded that it would be safe.

“What’s up, Noko?” inquired Mr. Holton.

The tall black seemed glad his masters had returned.

“Him want sell you um kidogo [little] white elephant skin,” Noko said.

“A white elephant skin?” demanded Bob suddenly. “Let’s see it.”

The natives seemed to regard the youths in some surprise. But they soon did as asked, producing the white elephant skin.

At sight of it Bob and Joe uttered startled exclamations.

“Why, that’s the one we killed!” cried Bob angrily. “See. There’s where our bullets entered the head.”

“You’re right, Bob,” said Mr. Lewis, after a moment of examining the skin.

“Ask them where they got it,” said Joe.

The naturalists put the question before the natives in their own language. They replied that they had speared it several miles from there, and, having heard of the safari, went to see if they could sell it.

“They’re big liars!” stormed Bob, when this had been translated. “That white elephant skin belongs to us. And,” he added with determination, “we’re going to have it without pay!

“Tell those savages to get out of here, Noko,” he said. “Tell them that if they don’t they’ll wish they had.” He removed his revolver from its holster and, as Noko talked, flashed it before the savages.

When Noko had finished translating, the savages grew furiously angry. They advanced threateningly toward the explorers, paying no attention to Bob’s gun.