to the sizzling point. They capered about the handsome room in a most
undignified manner, and counted the days that would elapse before they
could be on their way.

The club-room was in the residence of Henry Bosworth, whose son, Jack,
was one of the liveliest members of the Black Bear Patrol. The walls
of the apartment were hung with guns, paddles, bows, arrows, foils,
boxing-gloves, and such trophies as the members of the patrol had
been able to bring from field and forest. Above the door was a red
shield, nearly a yard in diameter, from the raised center of which a
Black Bear pointed an inquisitive nose. The boys were all proud of
their black bear badge, especially as no Boy Scout patrol was so well
known in New York for the character and athletic standing of its members.

On this stormy March night-one long to be remembered by every member
of the party--there were only five members of the Black Bear Patrol
present. These were Harry Stevens, son of a manufacturer of automobiles;
Glen Howard, son of a well-known board of trade man; Jack Bosworth, son
of a leading attorney; George Fremont, adopted son of James Cameron; and
Frank Shaw, son of a newspaper owner.

They had been planning a trip to the South all winter, and now, as has
been said, the mention of the journey down the Cumberland and Ohio rivers
to the Mississippi had so fired their enthusiasm for the great out-of-doors
that they were ready to start at short notice. They took down maps and
hunted up books descriptive of Mexico, and so busied themselves with the
details of the proposed trip that it was after eleven when their minds
came back to the common things of life.

"Well," Harry Stevens said, then, "I've got to go home, but I'll be here