under the nose of his faithful colleague the piece of sodden paper he had picked up on the plaza.
The man's skin went yellow beneath the brown. "Papa Isio," he whispered.
"Just, what I thought," said the Maestro, nodding to himself. "And he says he is coming here, doesn't he?"
"Yes, sir. He will come and burn the pueblo. That is the way he burned Cabayan last year."
"Gol darn it, don't I know it?" ejaculated the pedagogue, fiercely. "And didn't I lose my brand-new seven-dollar Spalding punching-bag? Well, we'll set him on his head this time."
"Yes, sir," meekly answered the assistant, who had not caught the full import of the explosive questions.
But the maestro did not hear him. He was out already and making his way to the cuartel. Roberts was dismissing the company when he arrived.
"Hello, you take them now," said the officer, as he saw the Maestro—Professor of Military Gymnastics also, by common consent—near him. "And, by the way," he added, with suppressed glee, "how's the toe?"
The Maestro did not answer. He was working at the inside of his khaki jacket. With some trouble
