as much as possible in the jungle of the
Isthmus.

"You boys don't seem to mind what you do to get pictures,"
commented Mr. Alcando, as they sat in the launch, going up the
stream, the existence of which made possible Gatun Lake.

"No, you get so you'll do almost anything to get a good film,"
agreed Blake.

"This is easy compared to some of the things we've done," Joe
remarked. "You'll become just as fascinated with it as we are, Mr.
Alcando."

"I hope so," he admitted, "for I will have to penetrate into a
much wilder jungle than this if I take the views our company
wants. Perhaps I can induce you to come to South America and make
films for us in case I can't do it," he concluded.

"Well, we're in the business," remarked Blake with a smile. "But
you'll get so you can take for yourself just as good pictures as
we can."

"Do you really think so?" asked the Spaniard, eagerly.

"I'm sure of it," Blake said.

The little suspicions both he and Joe had entertained of their
companion seemed to have vanished. Certainly he neither did nor
said anything that could be construed as dangerous. He was a
polished gentleman, and seemed to regard the boys as his great
friends. He often referred to the runaway accident.

As for the odd, ticking box, it seemed to have been put carefully
away, for neither Blake nor Joe saw it, nor had they heard the
click of it when they went near Mr. Alcando's possessions.

The first night in the jungle was spent aboard the boat. It was
pleasant enough, mosquito canopies keeping away the pests that are
said to cause malaria and yellow fever, among other things. But,
thanks to the activities of the American sanitary engineers the
mosquitoes are greatly lessened in the canal zone.

"And now for some real jungle life!" cried Blake the next day, as
the little party set off into the forest, a group of laborers with
machetes going ahead to clear the way.

For several miles nothing worth "filming" was seen, and Blake and
Joe were beginning to feel that perhaps they had had their trouble
for nothing. Now and then they came to little clearings in the
thick jungle, where a native had chopped down the brush and trees
to make a place for his palm-thatched and mud-floored hut. A few
of them clustered about formed a village. Life was very simple in
the jungle of Panama.

"Oh, Blake, look!" suddenly cried Joe, as they were walking along
a native path. "What queer insects. They are like leaves."

The