"What's on for to-night, Burt?"

Mr. St. John, a large automobile manufacturer of New Britain, Connecticut, looked across the dinner table at his son Burton. The latter was a boy of seventeen. Although he was sturdy for his age, his features were pale and denoted hard study. As his father and mother watched him there was just a hint of anxiety in their faces.

"Lots," replied the boy. "Got a frat meeting on at seven. Then I've got to finish my last paper for the history prof."

"Can't you let the paper go?" asked his mother. "You've been working pretty hard, Burt!"

"Yes," added Mr. St. John heartily. "Forget the work, son. You've done enough papers lately for a dozen boys."

"Not much!" answered Burt earnestly. "I'm goin' to grab that Yale scholarship. There's only a week till school's out now."

At that moment a maid appeared at the dining room door.

"Mr. St. John, there's a man called, sir. He didn't give me any name and—"

She was interrupted by a tall, fur-overcoated form that brushed her aside. The visitor's hawk-like face broke instantly into an eager smile.

"Hello, good people!" cried the man, as Mr. St. John sprang to his feet. "Forgotten me, Tom?"

"George!"

"Wallace!"

"Uncle George!"

The three members of the family broke into three simultaneous cries of surprise. The next instant Mrs. St. John was in the arms of the tall man, who supported her with one hand and with the other greeted her.

"Hello, Burt! How's your grip?" he cried as he released the couple and seized the hand of their son.

"Ouch!" yelled the boy, his grin changing to expression of pain. "I ain't no wooden man!"

"Where on earth did you come from?" exclaimed Mr. St. John, taking his brother-in-law's big coat and handing it to the astonished maid. "We haven't heard from you for a year!"

"Give me something to eat, Tom, and I'll talk later." As the hawk-faced man sat down, Burt gazed at him admiringly. George William Wallace, his uncle, was the boy's greatest hero. Famous under the name of "George William" for his books on little-traveled countries, he was known widely at every end of the world. He had crossed the Turkestan deserts, helped to survey the Cape to Cairo railway, led armies in China and South America, and explored the recesses of the Sahara. In his brief intervals of relaxation he lived with the St. Johns, having no home of his own.

As he gazed, Burt half wished that his own face was not so square and angular and more like that of his uncle. Mr. Wallace was thin but of very large frame. His close-cropped hair revealed a high forehead, beneath which two intensely black eyes. A long, curving nose gave his face itshawk-like effect, and thin lips and strong chin completed the likeness to some great bird of prey.

"What are you doing with that fur overcoat in June, George?" asked Mrs. St. John with smile.

"Keeping warm!" shot back the explorer as he pushed away his plate. "This beastly rain goes to the bone, Etta. I landed only yesterday and got the first train up here after leaving my cases at the Explorers' Club."

"Come on with the yarn, uncle!" exclaimed Burt eagerly. "Where've you been this time?"

Mr. Wallace lit one of his brother-in-law's cigars with huge enjoyment and led the way to the library without answering. When all four were comfortably ensconced about the big table he started in.

"Let's see. I wrote you from Naples last time, wasn't it?" The others nodded. "That was just before the war. I got a chance to go to the front as special correspondent, and snapped it up. I hung around for a while at Tripoli, then took a trip to the Turkish camp. There I got into a scrap with a Turk officer and had to run for it. There was no place to run except into the desert, so it took me quite a while to make civilization again.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Burt's father. "I suppose you circled around and made Algiers?"

"Tried to, but a bunch of Gharian slave dealers pulled me into the mountains. I spent two months in the chain gang; then they sold me south. There was no help for it. Instead of escaping to French territory I sneaked off with a racing camel and ended up at the Gold Coast two months ago."

"What!" Mr. St. John leaped up in amazement. "Do you mean to say you crossed the whole Sahara a second time, from north to south?"

"That's what," declared Mr. Wallace. Burt stared at him wide-eyed. "Found some of my old friends and they helped me along. How are you fixed, Tom? Can you put me up all right, Etta?"

"Your old room hasn't been touched," smiled Mrs. St. John as she glanced at her husband. The latter nodded.

"All fine and dandy, old man. Oh, I'm getting along pretty well. We've got some new buildings over at the works. Turning out some great little old cars too. Say, how long are you going to stay?"

"That depends." Mr. Wallace smiled whimsically. "I have a book that I want to finish this time. But I also have a notion that I want to do some ivory hunting in the Congo. If the pull doesn't get too strong I may stay a month or two."

"Hurray!" chipped in Burt, enthusiastically. "Come along to the frat meeting and tell us about the war last year! We got a 'nitiation on an' you can boss it!"

"No thanks!" laughed his uncle heartily. "When I want to do any lecturing I'll let you know, Burt. By gracious, Tom, the boy looks like a ghost! Been sick?"

"No," replied Mr. St. John gravely. "I'm afraid he's overworked. He's been trying for a scholarship at Yale that the high school offers, and the strain has been a little too much."

"Hm! Won't do, Burt," declared Mr. Wallace. "Books are all right but no use running 'em into the ground. Play baseball?"

"Sure!" replied Burt. "Not this spring though. Been too busy. Besides, I've been helpin' Critch with some stuff."

"Critch?" repeated his uncle, puzzled. "Who's Critch?"

"Howard Critchfield," replied Mr. St. John. "His father is my head draftsman and Burt and Howard are great chums. Howar d has a room down at the shops where he works afternoons and putters around at taxidermy."

Burt glanced at his watch and rose hastily. It was past seven and he had forgotten the time.

"See you later, uncle!" he said as he went to the door. What a tale he would have for the other boys! Despite his uncle's refusal to come with him Burt knew that once he got "the crowd" up to the house Mr. Wallace would provide a most delightful evening.

The next day the explorer's trunks arrived and he got settled in his old quarters. These were filled with hunting trophies, guns and foreign costumes from every quarter of the world. For two days Burt did not see his uncle except at meals, but on Friday evening Mr. Wallace announced that he would like to take a look at the works the next day. Burt promptly volunteered his services, which were accepted.

"You don't look right to me, Burt!" stated Mr. Wallace as they walked down the street after breakfast. "If we were down on the West Coast now I would say you were in for a good dose of fever."

"Did you ever have it?" asked Burt. He did not relish such close interest in his health, which seemed good enough to him. He also had vivid memories of a vile-tasting remedy which his uncle had proposed for a cold, years before.

"A dozen times," came the reply. "A chap gets it in high and low countries alike in Africa. So you've been helping young Critchfield, eh?"

"A little, sir. We haven't much chance of course but we've got some birds and rabbits and an old weasel we shot. It's heaps of fun."

"Hm!" Mr. Wallace cast a sharp glance at Burt but the boy did not observe it. They were nearing the factories now and presently Burt turned into a large fence-enclosed ground where the works stood.

They did not visit the old shops, which Mr. Wallace had seen before but went through the new assembling rooms and display building. The explorer was much interested in all that he saw and proved to have no slight knowledge of mechanics himself. Mr. St. John saw them from his private office and came out. By his orders they were treated to the unusual sight of a complete machine lying on the floor in pieces and inside of five minutes ready to run.

"Say!" cried the explorer in admiration. "Civilization certainly can produce wonders, Tom! I suppose that some day there'll be a shop like this in the heart of Africa! But let's have a squint at this chum of yours, Burt. I'd like to size him up a bit."

They left the new buildings and went to one of the older ones where Howard had been given a small room. Without stopping to knock, Burt threw open the door and ushered in his uncle proudly.

As he did so his look of confident pride vanished. Before him stood Critch, his freckled face streaked with dust and blood, his long apron spotted and stained and on the table before him two rabbits half-skinned.

"Gosh! You look like a murderer!" exclaimed Burt in dismay. "Uncle George, this is Critch. He ain't always in this shape though."

"Sorry I can't shake hands, Mr. Wallace!" said the red-haired boy. To his surprise the explorer laughed and stuck out his hand.

"Nonsense, lad! Shake!"

Critch dropped his knife, wiped his hand hastily on his apron and gripped that of the explorer heartily. "Frank Gates brought in those tame rabbits of his that died," he explained. "I told him it wasn't worth while stuffing them this weather, but he had the coin to pay for 'em and pretty near got sore about it, so I took on the job. I'm awful glad to meet you, sir! I've heard a heap about you, and Burt's lent me all your books."

"Go right ahead," insisted Mr. Wallace. "I'd like to see how you do it. Many's the skin I've had to put up in a hurry if I wanted it, but I'd sooner tramp a hundred miles than handle the beastly things!"

Critch picked up his knife and Mr. Wallace glanced around the little room. On the walls stood shelves of books and stuffed birds and animals. Bottles of liquids stood in the corners, and over the door was a stuffed horned owl mounted on a tree branch.

"That looks good!" commented the explorer approvingly. "That owl's a mighty good piece of work, boys!" He turned to Howard. "There you have him—nice and clean! You know how to handle a knife, I see. Ever hear how we tackle the big skins?"

"No," replied Critch with interest. "Tell us about it, Mr. Wallace, if you don't mind! I've read a little, but nothing definite."

"With soft-skinned animals like deer we usually do just what you're doing with those rabbits—simply make incisions, slit 'em from neck to tail and peel off the skins. By the way, what do you use for preservative?"

"Get it ready-mixed," replied Critch and pointed to the bottles. "It's odorless, takes the grease out o' the skin, and don't cost much. Guess I'll use arsenic on these, though. They need something pretty strong."

"I see," went on Mr. Wallace. "Well, with thick skins like elephant or rhino, it's a different matter. I never fixed an elephant skin myself but I've seen other fellows do it. They take it off in sections, rub it well with salt and let it dry after the fat's gone. Then a dozen blacks get around each section with their paring knives and get busy."

"Paring knives!" cried Burt. "What for?"

Pare down the skin," smiled Mr. Wallace. "Thick skins are too heavy to carry and too thick to be pliable, so the skinners often spend a week paring down a skin till it's portable. Then it's rubbed with salt again or else packed in brine and shipped down to the coast or back wherever your agents are, who get it preserved right for you."

They talked for half an hour while the rabbits were being finished. Then Burt and his uncle left the building, and finding that Mr. St. John had already gone to lunch, started home themselves.

"Say, Burt," said Mr. Wallace as they walked down the street, "how'd you like to come to Africa with me next month?"