"Well, since we three didn't come here because of wine, women, or revenge," Knowlton said, whimsically, "it must have been for money and excitement. Don't know which was the stronger lure, but if we could have only one of the two I think we'd let the money slide. How about it, Rod?" "Right! And, Rand, let me say this: Before we knew you we had an impression that you were more or less of a worthless pup. We've changed our ideas. If you ever go broke and want to hit a trail into some new place to make a strike of your own, and you need partners, let us know." And he held out his hand. The naked millionaire took it. For the first time a faint smile lightened his face. "I'll do that, partners!" he promised. "Yeah! That's the word. Pardners! Only, li'l' Timmy Ryan bucks at ever travelin' back into this here, now, Ja-va-ree jungle. I got enough of it. Right now I'm homesick." "So say we all," affirmed Knowlton. "Now let's turn in." But Tim stood a little longer looking out at the moonlit river and the two waiting canoes. His gaze roved along the stream, northward. He lifted his head, opened his mouth, expanded his lungs, and then the astounded denizens of forest and stream cut short their discordant concert to listen to something they never had heard before and never would hear again--a great voice thundering a censored version of a North American army song. "Home, boys, home! Home we want to be! Home, boys, home, in God's countree! We'll raise Ol' Glory to the top o' the pole And we'll all come back--not a dog-gone soul!"