rubber-blanket, tent-pegs, ropes, more ropes.--Say, Frank, what in
the name of the 'London Times' and jumping horn-toads do you want so
much rope for?"

"To tie up a certain young reporter named William Barnes when he
gets too fresh," was the laughing reply.

The three boys sat about a heaped, confused collection of ammunition,
cooking-utensils, rifles, and camp "duffle" in general, one evening
late in May. The eldest of the group, a sunny-faced, clear eyed lad
of about sixteen, held in his hand a notebook from which he called out
the inventory of the articles piled about him as his brother, a youth
of fourteen, sorted them out. The third member of the trio was a
short, stocky chap of possibly seventeen, with sharp, blue eyes that
gleamed behind a pair of huge spectacles. He was examining a camera
with care; from time to time turning his attention to an open notebook
that lay beside him in which he was supposed to be entering the list
as the other called it off.

The place where the boys were busying themselves was the upper floor
of a large garage in the rear of the Chester residence, on Madison
Avenue, New York City, which had been turned into a workshop for the
two young Chesters--Frank and Harry--already well known to our
readers as The Boy Aviators. The well set-up lad who was so
industriously calling off the equipment that lay scattered about was
Frank Chester, and the ready classifier of the mixed-up outfit was
Harry, his younger brother. The third member of the group was Billy
Barnes, the young reporter, already down to us as the chronicler of
the Chester boys' adventures in Nicaragua and the depths of the
Everglades of Florida. Since the boys' return from Florida on the