"Say, you fellows, are we going to Africa or are we on a Coney
Island picnic?" 

"Be serious now, Billy Barnes, you may be all right as a reporter,
but as a shipping clerk you're no more good than a cold storage
egg." 

"Well, I'm doing the best I can," was the indignant reply,
"here--I've got it all down: Box 10-- One waterproof tent, one
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