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?"

CHAPTER II

MR. CRITCHFIELD IS INTERVIEWED

"What! Me?" Burt stopped short and stared at his uncle. Mr. Wallace chuckled and lifted one eyebrow.

"Of course, if you don't want to go—" he began.

"Want to!" shouted Burt, careless of the passers-by who were looking at them curiously. "You can bet your life I want to! I'd give a million dollars to go with you!" His face dropped suddenly. "What's the use, Uncle George? You know's well as I do, the folks ain't going to stand for anything like that. Why, dad'd have a fit if he thought I was in Africa. What's the use of dreaming?"

"Here—trot along!" His uncle seized his arm and drew him on toward home. "I guess you're right about that, Burt. Anyhow, you keep mum and let me do the talking. Mind, now, don't you butt in anywhere along the line. I'm dead in earnest, young man. Maybe we'll be able to do something if you lie low and let me handle it. Understand?"

"I understand," replied Burt a trifle more hopefully. "Gee! If I could only go! Could I shoot real lions and elephants, uncle?"

"Dozens of 'em!" laughed Mr. Wallace cheerfully. "Where I want to go there are no game laws to hinder. You'd have a tough time for a while, though. It's not like a camping trip up the Maine coast."

"Oh, shucks!" replied the boy eagerly. "Why, there ain't a boy in the world that wouldn't be crazy to hike with you. They've got to let me go!"

Although nearly bursting with his secret Burt said nothing of it until he returned to the shops that afternoon and joined Critch. Then he was unable to hold in and he poured out the story to his chum. Critch listened in incredulous amazement, which changed to cheerful envy when he found Burt was not joking.

"Why, you dog-goned old bookworm!" he exclaimed when Burt finished. The red-headed boy was genuinely delighted over his chum's good luck. "Think of you out there shootin' your head off, while I'm plugging away here at home! Think your folks'll kick?"

"Of course they will," groaned Burt gloomily. "Ever know a feller to want any fun, without his folks kicking like sin? They like Uncle George a heap, but when it comes to takin' the darlin' boy where he can have a reg'lar circus, it's no go. Darn it, I wish I was grown-up and didn't have any boss!"

"It'll be a blamed shame if they don't let you go, old sport!" agreed Critch with a smile. "But you haven't asked 'em yet. Mebbe they'll come around all right."

"Huh!" grunted Burt sarcastically. "Mebbe I'll find a million dollars in my clothes to-morrow morning! Say—"

"Well? Spit her out!" laughed Critch as Burt paused suddenly.

"S'pose I could work you in on the game!" cried Burt enthusiastically. "That'd help a lot if the folks knew you were going, too, and if your dad would fall for it we might take you as some kind of assistant! I tell you—I'll take you as my personal servant, my valet! How'd that strike you, just for a bluff?"

"Strike me fine," responded Critch vigorously. "I'd be willin' to work my way—"

"Oh, shucks! I didn't mean that. I mean to get your expenses paid that way, see? After we got going—"

"Come out of it!" interrupted Critch. "You talk as if you was really going. Where do you reckon my dad comes in? S'pose he'll stand for any game like that? Not on your life! Dad's figgering on pulling me into the office when school's out."

Burt left for home greatly sobered by the practical common sense of his chum. He was quickly enthusiastic over any project and was apt to be carried away by it, while Critch was just the opposite. None the less, Burt was determined that if it was possible for him to go, his chum should go too.

After dinner that evening while the family was sitting in the library, Mr. Wallace cautiously introduced the subject to Burt's parents. Burt was upstairs in his own room.

"Etta, isn't that boy of yours getting mighty peaked?"

"I'm afraid so," sighed Mrs. St. John anxiously. "But we can't make him give