"I'm Dick Drake," he said, holding out his hand. "Richard
Keen Drake, recently with Uncle's engineers in France."

"My name is Goodwin." I took his hand, shook it
warmly. "Dr. Walter T. Goodwin."

"Goodwin the botanist--? Then I know you!" he exclaimed.
"Know all about you, that is. My father admired
your work greatly. You knew him--Professor Alvin
Drake."

I nodded. So he was Alvin Drake's son. Alvin, I knew,
had died about a year before I had started on this journey.
But what was his son doing in this wilderness?

"Wondering where I came from?" he answered my unspoken
question. "Short story. War ended. Felt an irresistible
desire for something different. Couldn't think of
anything more different from Tibet--always wanted to go
there anyway. Went. Decided to strike over toward Turkestan.
And here I am."

I felt at once a strong liking for this young giant. No
doubt, subconsciously, I had been feeling the need of
companionship with my own kind. I even wondered, as I
led the way into my little camp, whether he would care to
join fortunes with me in my journeyings.

His father's work I knew well, and although this stalwart