be appetizing. They had been in the woods so much now that even the
poorest cook in the club, Will, was picking up quite a little knowledge
of the art, and felt an occasional desire to show off.

The boys never got over joking poor Will about his first experience in
cooking rice, however. He had put the entire four pounds in a pot while
the rest were away. One of them, coming back to camp presently, found
Will in distress. He had filled every kettle and pannikin with the
swelling rice, and despite the glistening heaps the original kettle was
still boiling up heaps of it, so that it threatened to even smother the
fire.

He knew better now.

After the meal was over they sat around, taking things easy. Frank was
writing in his logbook, Will monkeying with his camera, while Jerry and
Bluff sat there discussing something that had to do with their respective
lung power--a question never, as yet, fully settled, although they had
had many a friendly contest to thresh out this rivalry.

"Frank, don't look up, please! Listen to me!" said Will in a low voice.

"Well, what is it?" asked the other, simply pausing in the act of writing
a word.

"I saw something moving over behind that bunch of saw-palmettos on your
left. Pretending not to be looking, I squinted out of the tail of my eye.
What do you think I saw? The head of a black man raised--an awfully
wicked-looking head, too, Frank. What had we better do about it?" went on
Will, his whispering voice quivering.