Well that was a promise, but Poetry wasn’t satisfied. He pretended he wanted Tom Till to go along, on account of he liked Tom a lot and thought he’d make a better Man Friday than Dragonfly. “We’ll try you out,” Poetry said, and caught hold of the dock with his hands and climbed out of the boat, all of us following him. “We’ll have to initiate you,” Poetry explained, as we all swished along together. “We can’t take anybody on a treasure hunt who can’t keep quiet when he’s told to, and who can’t take orders without saying ‘WHY?’” “Why?” Dragonfly wanted to know, and grinned, but Poetry said with a very serious face, “It isn’t funny,” and we went on. “What’re you going to do?” Dragonfly wanted to know, as we started to march him along with us up the shore to the place where we were going to initiate him. I didn’t know myself where we were going to do it, but Poetry seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go and why, so I acted like I knew too, Poetry making me stop to pick up a great big empty gallon can that had had prunes in it, the gang having to eat prunes for breakfast nearly every morning on our camping trip. “What’s _that_ for?” Dragonfly wanted to know, and Poetry said, “That’s to cook our dinner in.” “You mean--you mean--_me_!” “You!” Poetry said, “Or you can’t be Bill’s Man Friday.” “But I get saved, don’t I?” Dragonfly said with a worried voice. “Sure, just as soon as I get shot,” Poetry explained. “And then you turn into a goat,” I said to Poetry, as he panted along beside us, “and right away you eat the prune can!” With that, Poetry smacked his lips like he had just finished eating a delicious tin can. Then he leaned over and groaned like it had given him a stomach-ache. Right that second, I decided to try Dragonfly’s obedience, so I said, “All right, Friday, take the can you’re going to be cooked in and fill it half full of lake water!” There was a quick scowl on Dragonfly’s face, which said, “I don’t want to do it.” He shrugged his scrawny shoulders lifted his eyebrows and the palms of his hands at the same time, and said, “I’m a poor heathen; I can’t even understand English; I don’t want to fill any old prune can with water.” With that, I scowled, and said to Poetry in a fierce voice, “That settles _that_! He can’t take orders. Let’s send him home!” Boy, did Dragonfly ever come to life in a hurry. “All right, all right,” he whined, “give me the can!” He grabbed it out of my hand, made a dive toward the lake which was still close by us, dipped the can in and came back with it filled clear to the top with nice clean water. “Here, Crusoe,” he puffed. “Your Man Friday is your humble slave.” He extended the can toward me. “Carry it yourself!” I said.