after the other occupants of the bungalow had gone to sleep. He felt that the position into which he had drifted was rapidly becoming desperate, and nothing remained but the trip to Manila. Long after he had arrived at that conclusion he continued to toss and turn in bed, for his brain was still active and wild cat schemes were chasing one another through it. Midnight had long passed when he rose restlessly and stared out of the window into the night. There was no moon, and even the tropic stars were dimmed by low-lying clouds. Everywhere there was deathly stillness, for the night breeze was too gentle even to cause a rustling among the leaves.
"Oh, my hat!" he exclaimed half aloud, and reached for a match with the intention of reading himself to sleep.
His fingers had barely closed on the box when the sound of many harsh voices struck his ears. It was an ominous, swelling chorus.
Chester's frame stiffened. For three seconds he held his head on one side in a listening attitude.
"God!" he muttered. "The niggers!"
Turning, he sped swiftly to the bed and pulled his revolver from under the pillow.
