"What a modest devil you are," said the admiring Hamilton, "having a lion hunt all to yourself and not saying a word about it to anybody." Bones made curious apologetic noises. "I didn't know there were any lions in the country," pursued Hamilton remorselessly. "Liars, yes! But lions, no! I suppose you brought them with you--and I suppose you know also, Bones, that it is considered in lion-hunting circles awfully rude to stick your finger into a lion's eye? It is bad sportsmanship to say the least, and frightfully painful for the lion." Bones was making distressful grimaces. "How would you like a lion to stick his finger in _your_ eye?" asked Hamilton severely; "and, by the way, Bones, I have to thank you." He rose solemnly, took the hand of his reluctant and embarrassed second and wrung. "Thank you," said Hamilton, in a broken voice, "for saving my life." "Oh, I say, sir," began Bones feebly. "To carry a man eighty miles on your back is no mean accomplishment, Bones--especially when I was unconscious----" "I don't say you were unconscious, sir. In fact, sir----" floundered Lieutenant Tibbetts as red as a peony. "And yet I was unconscious," insisted Hamilton firmly. "I am still unconscious, even to this day. I have no recollection of your heroic effort, Bones, I thank you." "Well, sir," said Bones, "to make a clean breast of the whole affair----" "And this dangerous expedition of yours, Bones, an expedition from which you might never return--that," said Hamilton in a hushed voice, "is the best story I have heard for years." "Sir," said Bones, speaking under the stress of considerable emotion, "I am clean bowled, sir. The light-hearted fairy stories which I wrote to cheer, so to speak, the sick-bed of an innocent child, sir, they have recoiled upon my own head. _Peccavi, mea culpi_, an' all those jolly old expressions that you'll find in the back pages of the dictionary." "Oh, Bones, Bones!" chuckled Hamilton. "You mustn't think I'm a perfect liar, sir," began Bones, earnestly. "I don't think you're a perfect liar," answered Hamilton, "I think you're the most inefficient liar I've ever met." "Not even a liar, I'm a romancist, sir," Bones stiffened with dignity and saluted, but whether he was saluting Hamilton, or the spirit of Romance, or in sheer admiration was saluting himself, Hamilton did not know. "The fact is, sir," said Bones confidentially, "I'm writing a book!" He stepped back as though to better observe the effect of his words. "What about?" asked Hamilton, curiously. "About things I've seen and things I know," said Bones, in his most impressive manner. "Oh, I see!" said Hamilton, "one of those waistcoat pocket books." Bones swallowed the insult with a gulp. "I've been asked to write a book," he said; "my adventures an' all that sort of thing. Of course they needn't have happened, really----"