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Way and Bannister were sitting in front of Way's bungalow one night a week later, smoking. The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen, it had rained earlier in the afternoon, and, contrary to the usual order of things, the clouds had not disappeared at sunset, but still hung on, seemingly playing a game of hide and seek with the bright, southern stars, which would otherwise have relieved the gloom. Way was whistling softly to himself between puffs; Bannister was busily rolling cigarettes, lighting them, and throwing them

away.

"Bannister," Way suddenly asked, "were you ever homesick?" Bannister shook his head. "Never had a home,” he replied. "I sold papers at five, was a bootblack until I was fifteen, and then I worked in a factory until two and a half years ago, when I joined the army."

"Don't you ever expect to go back to the States?" Way continued. Again Bannister shook his head. "What's the use?" he asked. "There's nobody there that gives a continental for me. Out here there's a woman who well, you know how she feels, and I reckon I think just about as much of her as I ever will of anybody. I'm a shiftless sort of cuss and this lazy life suits me to a showdown. What's the use of going back?"

"I wouldn't like this sort of thing long," Way said.

""Tain't everybody that's suited for it," Bannister replied. "There's a fellow named Goodman about fifteen miles over on the other side of the mountain that ought to be back in the States bossing a section gang. He's by his lonesome, like you, trying to establish a market among these niggers for something God Almighty never intended them to have, and he's going about it in a mighty risky way. He beat his muchacho not long ago because he found 'im taking a siesta in the evening. And he's done other things they don't understand out here. Some day he'll git a knife in his back, or something worse."

Way arose and stretched himself, preparatory to going inside. "I suppose you'd play a hands-off game in case of any trouble up here," he remarked curiously.

Bannister nodded. "Only thing I could do," he said. "I can't go back there," pointing out towards the coast, "so I've got to stay here, and the only safe way to stay up here is not to get mixed up with any monkey business."

Way turned, and as he did so, his muchacho came out of the house,

gesticulating excitedly. A bloody Americano had just slipped into the bungalow by the back way and wished to speak to the Señor at once. The boy was trembling. Way had picked him up in Manila, and it had only been after much hesitation that he had consented to follow him up among the hillsmen, of whom he lived in daily terror.

Way turned and entered the bungalow. The man who awaited him was Goodman and he had traveled fifteen miles through the broken country in three hours. His clothes were torn almost to shreds by the undergrowth, his feet were bleeding where the sharp rocks had cut through his shoes, and his right shoulder had been slit half way across with a knife.

There had been trouble. Goodman could not tell just how it had happened. He only knew that he had been returning from a short trip up in the mountains and had got into a narrow ravine, when a stone had dropped from overhead, crushing his horse and almost pinning him under it. By the time he had got on his feet, he had seen a horde of little black imps advancing on him from one end of the ravine, and had turned and fled. One of them had got near enough to stick a knife into his shoulder, but a shot from his revolver had sent him hurtling down the mountain side, and he had made his escape. Since then, he had traveled as fast as terror and his own legs could carry him, hoping to gain protection at Manito until he could get through to an American garrison. He was still panting and told his story between huge draughts of water, which Way had motioned his muchacho to bring him.

"Do you think the hillsmen know which way you were headed?" Way asked.

"They'll track 'im down," said Bannister, who had followed Way in. "The little devils know their business and they ain't going to let him git away if they can help it, after going as far as they have."

As though in confirmation of this, there was a patter of bare feet outside, and a brown figure appeared in the doorway. Way reached for a revolver which lay on the table before him, but Bannister seized his arm.

"Querida mia," he said, and Way sat down.

The woman entered, glanced at the three men and burst into an excited flow of dialect Spanish, which neither Way nor Goodman could follow. However, her gestures were sufficient. Seizing Bannister by the arm, and motioning the others away with a shower of maledictions, she started towards the door, pleading and pulling.

Presently Bannister paused and turned to Way. "The niggers know where he is," he said, pointing to Goodman, "and they'll be here after 'im mighty quick. Maybe if you'll leave 'im they'll be satisfied with fixing him, and I can smuggle you out in a day or two. I'll risk that much."

Way shook his head. "We'll fight it out together," he said.

"Come on, then," said Bannister to the woman, and they started towards the door.

Just then, there was a crash of broken glass at their backs, a black, flat-nosed face appeared for a moment in the window frame, and Way wheeled in time to receive a bolo thrust in the thigh. At the same time, another figure appeared in the doorway, with uplifted bolo, aimed at the fallen man.

Bannister roughly shook his arm free from the clinging woman and his right fist shot out. With a squeak of rage, the figure fell back and disappeared into the night.

"You black-hearted little devils," Bannister shouted, slamming the door shut and barricading it, "I'll show you how to fight a white man's fight."

Way had already recovered himself sufficiently to blow out the light and hobble to one of the windows; Goodman, barricaded behind an old chest, covered the other. Way's muchacho lay on the floor, in an agony of terror. The woman had staggered into a corner and sat gazing straight to the front with unseeing eyes. She knew what awaited them.

Everything became suddenly quiet, but Bannister knew that somewhere out in the blackness a hundred cunning little eyes were watching the bungalow for a chance to strike.

It came soon. Goodman, hearing a noise under his window, raised up to fire, and received a thrust in the breast. Bannister sprang to the window and emptied his gun at a scurrying mass of black figures. Way's gun spoke for a few minutes, when it likewise ceased, and Bannister turned to find himself surrounded by a score of twisting, squirming little men.

First with the butt of his revolver, and when that was broken, with his bare fist, he struck out until a pair of scrawny brown arms clasped him around the legs, and he went down.

"Adioso, querida mia," he muttered, as the knives flashed over him.

APPENDIX II: EXPOSITION AND ARGUMENT

I. Agriculture.

(Classified as to Topics)

Middle and Lower Classes in England under the Stuarts
The Realm of the Commonplace
Is Agriculture Declining?

II. Economics.

Organization of Farmers

The Esthetic Value of Efficiency

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The Case against the Single Tax

Speech on Old-Age Pensions

Popular Control of National Wealth

Is Agriculture Declining?

Organization of Farmers

The Organization of Labor

III. Education.

The Aim of a University Education
Self-Cultivation in English .

The Social Value of the College-Bred
The Intellectual Powers of Woman

IV. Engineering.

Mine Helmets

A Mechanical Dishwasher

How the Panama Locks are Operated
The Esthetic Value of Efficiency
Wireless in Railroad Service

The Mathematician and the Engineer

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