"Come on with the yarn, uncle!" exclaimed Burt eagerly. "Where've you been this time?"
Mr. Wallace lit one of his brother-in-law's cigars with huge enjoyment and led the way to the library without answering. When all four were comfortably ensconced about the big table he started in.
"Let's see. I wrote you from Naples last time, wasn't it?" The others nodded. "That was just before the war. I got a chance to go to the front as special correspondent, and snapped it up. I hung around for a while at Tripoli, then took a trip to the Turkish camp. There I got into a scrap with a Turk officer and had to run for it. There was no place to run except into the desert, so it took me quite a while to make civilization again.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Burt's father. "I suppose you circled around and made Algiers?"
"Tried to, but a bunch of Gharian slave dealers pulled me into the mountains. I spent two months in the chain gang; then they sold me south. There was no help for it. Instead of escaping to French territory I sneaked off with a racing camel and ended up at the Gold Coast two months ago."
"What!" Mr. St. John leaped up in amazement. "Do you mean to say you crossed the whole Sahara a second time, from north to south?"
"That's what," declared Mr. Wallace. Burt stared at him wide-eyed. "Found some of my old friends and they helped me along. How are you fixed, Tom? Can you put me up all right, Etta?"
"Your old room hasn't been touched," smiled Mrs. St. John as she glanced at her husband. The latter nodded.
"All fine and dandy, old man. Oh, I'm getting along pretty well. We've got some new buildings over at the works. Turning out some great little old cars too. Say, how long are you going to stay?"