with the hollow report of an air gun. He was finishing up his morning calisthenics.
As he reached the centre of the plaza an unfamiliar object stopped him abruptly. It was only a cross, a rough cross made of two pieces of bamboo fastened at right angles with bejuca and stuck into the ground, but it seemed to have meaning to the Maestro. He walked up close to it and examined it carefully. He was disappointed for a moment; then his fingers, passing along the horizontal piece, touched a thorn stuck like a nail in the axis of the cross. Holding his breath, for it was not yet time to exhale, he nodded knowingly and his eyes searched the ground about him. They soon lit upon what he wanted. He pounced upon a bunch of wild palay, stooped, and was up again with something white in his hand.
It was a piece of paper, limp and bespattered with the night's rain, but on which characters in native Visayan were still visible. The Maestro pored over it closely, then his pent-up breath exploded.
"Papa Isio," he exclaimed gaily. "The Mad Pope is coming to see us."
He stopped, with thought upon his brow.
"I lost my home and punching-bag at it once," he said, musingly. "Well, we'll give him a scrimmage this time."
After which somewhat incoherent remark he folded
