“Well, my boy,” his uncle said, “if you’re planning to go with me to Zeuglodon Valley to-morrow, you’d better cheat the flies and take a good long sleep. You think your backbone—over which you made such a howl—is sufficiently straightened up to tackle a long camel-back ride?” “It’s a little sore still, even after two weeks’ rest,” the boy admitted honestly, “but I’d want to go if it were twice as sore.” “No use reasoning with a lad when he’s set,” his uncle commented, shrugging his shoulders. “All right, then, be ready early in the morning.” An hour after sunrise the party of three started off, Dr. Hunt, Perry and the chief camel-driver, with two camels carrying water and provisions. It was not until the party was well on its way that Perry realized that this was no idle and easy jaunt. The best and the fastest camels had been picked for the trip. Seventy-six miles had to be covered, thirty-eight each way, and there was nothing remotely resembling a trail. By lunch-time the party had descended over the various benches and declivities to the level of the lake of Birket-el-Qurun and the noon-day halt was made near the western border of the lake. Rough stony country with numerous sand dunes then confronted the party. Traveling at forced speed, one of the camels dropped and had to be sent back. This reduced the amount of water that could be carried on the trip and made it necessary to put every one on short rations. Somehow the very knowledge that the supply of water was scant seemed to make Perry all the thirstier. His tongue got thick and seemed to fill up the whole of his mouth. As the afternoon wore on, the torment from thirst became so great that the lad actually forgot the pain in his back, due to the racking, staggering gait of the camel. The slightly cooler air of evening helped him a little, but his tongue was far too swollen for him to be able to speak clearly when at last camp was pitched for the night on a rock waste flecked with patches of sand. “How do you feel, Perry?” said his uncle. “Bully!” answered the boy. “Don’t want to take up camel-driving as a profession, eh?” “Not quite, Uncle George,” was the response. “Still, this isn’t a fair sample of a trip, is it? It’s harder than most caravan routes, surely.” “Not to a true son of the desert. Michawi, there, seems perfectly content. So far as I’m concerned, I’m willing to admit that it’s about all I care for and I think the natives were wise to name this region what they did.” “What is its name?” “The Gar el Gehannem, or, as we should call it in the States, Hell Butte.” “Have we much more of it?” “The worst is still ahead, Michawi says. But we’ll strike the valley before noon.”