“And there don’t seem to be any on your neck or face,” Jerry declared, after an examination. “But, Frank, if there had been, would you have used that purple stuff you carry in that little bottle, tightly corked, and labeled ‘poison’?” “Just what it’s for,” came the reply, “and it disinfects any sort of wound that seems suspicious. The only trouble is, that it leaves a dark stain on the flesh for some days. It’s permanganate of potash, and any druggist will put it up if he’s told what it’s for. But when one’s life may pay the forfeit, what does a little pain, or stain, amount to?” “You are quite right, my boy,” remarked Luther Snow. “I’ve carried a small phial of that same stuff thousands of miles, over African trails, and through the better part of India. And if I’ve used it once, I suppose I have fifty times; for myself or some gun bearer who was clawed by a lion or tiger.” Again did Frank have that deep conviction that there was something strange about this Luther Snow, as he called himself. How a poor carpenter, who had never had a dollar he did not earn himself, could spend years in hunting just for pleasure, all over Asia and Africa, bothered him. But some day he expected to know what the key could be to this riddle. That night the talk was all about past experiences that had come the way of the four Outdoor Chums. One story brought up another, and through it all Luther Snow sat there, listening as though spellbound. If he had been somewhat of a traveler and a hunter, as an old man; surely these boys deserved more or less credit for what they had been through, considering their years. Frank felt drawn toward the man in spite of himself. There were times when he believed that if this mystery that hung over Luther Snow could only be lifted he might look on him with friendly eyes. But he never wavered in the least with regard to that resolution he had taken, which was to the effect that when they reached the city on the bluff, Memphis, he would play a little lone hand he was arranging, and see to it that Luther was left behind; with plenty of money in his pocket, placed there secretly, to cover all further expenses down to the city he wished to reach, according to his story—New Orleans. CHAPTER XX—THE FLOATING TREE “How did they turn out, Will?” It was Jerry who asked this question. They had all left the cabin, and given it over to the photographer for an hour, so that he could make use of it for a dark room, in which to develop his films. And the opening of the door, with his appearance on deck, was a sign that his operations had been brought to a conclusion. “Simply immense!” exclaimed the other, in a triumphant tone. “Jerry, when it comes to snapping things that are in perpetual motion, you certainly take the cake.” “You mean I got a little more than the stub tail of the cat?” inquired Jerry.