the profound slumber of
the Malay: pacified, it slept again, then the night was still but for
the soft sounds of displaced waters and the creakings of the ship's
old joints.

* * * * *

As he passed along the narrow, ill-lighted passage toward his cabin he
heard a voice raised in ugly imprecation:

"I'll get him if he comes, the ---- upstart! Just let him show his
face on my place, by ----, I'll fix him!"

It was Sears' voice. As he felt his way down the dark corridor, he
heard Lindsey's low tones, reproachful, conciliatory.

A few steps further brought him near Sears' door. Suddenly he
distinguished a figure outlined against the door, listening. As a
match flared in Terry's fingers, the native whirled.

It was Matak. He followed Terry to his cabin, unabashed.

"Master," he said simply, "he talk about you. He make fight talk--kill
talk--so I listen."

The seed of his loyalty fell on ground furrowed by the lonely hours on
deck. Shame at having given way to a great depression swept over
Terry--friends were in the making, this splendid friend already made
... and he had come to serve, not to seek.... He smiled into the
worshiping black eyes.

"It's all right, Matak. You do not understand. You go to your quarters
and get some sleep."

The Moro lingered. "Anything more, master?"

"Yes, Matak. Don't call me 'master': call me 'lieutenant.'

"Yes, master." He left the cabin.

Terry, always a light sleeper, was awakened toward morning by a slight
sound outside his door. Looking out into the dim corridor he saw that
Matak was standing guard over his slumbers, armed with a big bolo
whose naked length gleamed viciously in the semi-darkness.

Touched by the devotion and realizing the futility of trying to drive
him from his vigil, Terry lay back on the pillow, the rhythmic beat of
the propeller in his ears. Asleep, he dreamed, and the chug of the
screw became the beat of an engine bearing him away from the home of
his fathers.

The Moro heard the restless tossing and stepped silently into the
little stateroom, his young-old eyes fastened upon the wistful lines
that marked the competent young face. While he stood brooding over his
young master the dawn streaked through the open porthole, and a soft
splash sounded from up forward as the ship dropped her roped anchor.
They were off Davao.

Terry had come into port.

CHAPTER VI

THE LAND OF HEMP

In three months the Gulf