The boys were delighted with the idea of going to Burmah, and declared themselves ready to leave on the instant; but they moderated their enthusiasm on learning that the steamer would not start till noon of the next day. A garri was called, and our friends drove to the banker's and the post-office, and their journey was rewarded with a fine parcel of letters and papers from home. They also called at the United States Consulate, and found that two or three letters had been addressed to them in care of the consul, and were safely kept by that gentleman, pending their return. The news from home was entirely satisfactory. The families of Frank and Fred were greatly interested in the letters which the youths had sent describing their journey, and Miss Effie informed them that some of the letters had been given to the editor of their favorite newspaper, and so had found their way into print. "And the editor says," she added, "that they are good enough to make a book of, and when you get home you shall have one printed." "What! we make a book!" exclaimed Fred, as Frank read the concluding sentence of Miss Effie's letter; "we could never do it in the world!" "Why not?" Frank inquired. Evidently he thought the thing possible, perhaps for the reason that his sweetheart so regarded it. "Because," Fred answered, "we don't write as the books do, or, at any rate, the most of them. We don't trouble ourselves about 'fine writing,' whatever that is, but go straight on and tell what we see and hear, the same as though we were sitting around the table at home and talking to our friends." "Perhaps, after all," responded his cousin, "a book written in just that way wouldn't be so very bad. It's the kind of book I would prefer in reading about a country; and the fact that the editor prints our letters, shows that he's of my opinion. However, let's not trouble ourselves about the prospects of being book-writers, but go on and make our letters just as we've been making them." This was agreed to without further discussion, and the rest of the afternoon and the evening were devoted to reading and rereading letters and papers, and answering the most important of the missives. [Illustration: BAY ON THE COAST OF SUMATRA.] At noon the next day they were steaming out of the harbor of Singapore, and entering the Straits of Malacca. On their right they had the Malay Peninsula stretching away as far as the eye could reach, while on their left were the densely-wooded shores of Sumatra. The air was warm, but its severity was tempered by a breeze that blew steadily in their faces as they steamed up the Straits, and seemed to be laden with the odor of spices and other tropical products. At least so thought Frank, but the Doctor assured him that the perfume was principally imaginary, as they were not yet where spices grow in profusion.