ows here to me. On a trip like that you
want to be mighty sure you like the fellow you are going to be with.
Then I think you would learn more on a trip like that than in a year of
the sort of work Freet plans for you. And last, because I think you've
got the same kind of feeling for the Service that I have though you've
been here so short a time. It's something that's born in you. What do
you say, Manning?"

Jim never had felt so flattered in his life. And Adventure called to him
like a ship to a land-locked mariner.

"Gee!" he cried, "but you're good to ask me, Mr. Tuck! Bet your life
I'll go!"

Tuck emptied his pipe and rose. "I'll go see Freet now and persuade him
to get busy with the Chief in Washington. One thing, Manning. It will be
a dangerous undertaking. We may not come through alive. You must get
used to the idea, though, that every Project demands its toll of deaths.
People don't realize that. Are you willing to go, knowing the risk?"

With all the valor of youth and ignorance, Jim answered, "I'm ready to
start now."

Mr. Freet was not adverse to the undertaking and the Washington office
shrugged its shoulders. The Project engineer talked seriously to Jim,
though, about the danger of the mission and insisted that he write home
about it before finally committing himself. Jim's letter home, however,
would have moved a far more stolid spirit than Uncle Denny, for he
sketched the danger hazily and dwelt at length on the honor and glory of
the undertaking. The reply from the brownstone front was as enthusiastic
as Jim could desire.

Tuck undertook the preparations for the expedition with the utmost care.
Only the two of them were to go. The outfit must be such as they could
handle themselves, yet as complete as possible. Two folding canvas
boats, two air mattresses, life preservers, waterproof bags, first aid
appliances, brandy, sweet oil, surveying implements, food in as compact
form as possible, guns and fishing tackle made a formidable pile for two
men to manage. But at Jim's protest Charlie answered grimly that they
would not be heavily laden when they came out of the canyon.

It was mid-August when the two men reached the Makon country. They
arranged with a rancher to take them and their outfit up to the river.
There was no road, scarcely even a trail up to the canyon. The green of
the ranches was encircled by a greasewood-covered plain that, toward the
river, became rock covered and rough so that a