had laid its spell upon Terry. He had come to
love the great slopes, from the sandy coastline to the last swift
grades to Apo's distant top, the loveliness of the wind-tossed palms
which fringed the water's edge, the sparkle of the ocean's blue
expanse and its quick response to moods of sun and wind.

During the noontime hours the sun was blazing hot but he could order
his work so as to avoid exposure. Out at daybreak, he usually
accomplished the duties of the day during the cool morning hours,
reading through the siesta hours in the coolness of his great open
house.

Seldom did the routine of his work--the drill, the sifting of patrol
reports, the minutiae of the service--overreach into the afternoon
hours: then he was free to range the country, to learn its trails and
towns, its people and its spirit. His big gray pony had become a
familiar sight in every village, on nearly every plantation. Sometimes
he was gone upon two-day trips up or down the coast, or riding the
narrow trails through the deep green shade of the woods, his Stetson
seldom touched by direct sunlight.

There was a never-ending pleasure in the hemp fields, great sweeps of
tall abaca plants glinting in the sun: and in the sluggish, useful
river which drained the levels, its turbid bosom bearing a few silent
native craft, its oily depths suggesting a basis for the legends of
huge crocodiles which no white man had ever seen.

He worked hard, but it was not all work. Many an early evening found
him out on the broad Gulf in an outrigger canoe he had learned to
handle with native skill, sometimes with Matak, oftener with Mercado,
the first sergeant of his Macabebe company. Sometimes, when the
surface was calm, he spent wonderful hours in studying the cool depths
of the waters, the lee-shore coral ledges which bore fairy gardens of
oceanic flora, brilliant-hued, weird-shaped, swaying gently in the
tidal current: strange forms of sea-life moved among the marine
growths,--some beautiful in form and color, others hideous. Once,
while he watched a school of smaller fish playing around a huge
sea-turtle, they disappeared as if by signal and the tortoise drew in
his scaled head and sank to rest on the bottom as a swordfish swam
majestically over the spot, then darted into deeper waters. There were
clams as large as washtubs.

Often, while Mercado--or Matak--paddled, he trolled a flashing bait to
lure the gamefish which swarmed in the depths. Rarely did such