s set by the
white men who governed the town. The few Moros whom he encountered on
the noon-deserted streets passed him silently and with averted eyes,
wary, secretive, entirely alien. One looked him square in the eye,
leaving him uncomfortable with the antipathy unveiled, the cold,
everlasting contempt of the Mohammedan for the unbeliever whom he does
not know.

He walked with lids half-closed against the white glare and the heat
waves which danced above the tortured roads and roofs: by the hour set
for his luncheon engagement he had covered the town thoroughly,
including the beautiful post which had been turned over to Scouts when
the Army at last finished its tedious Moro project.

He found the Major waiting him at the Club, a large, single-story
building set in a grove of tall palms at the edge of the beach and
cooled by the breezes from the Straits. He followed him out on the
wide veranda built over the water's edge, passing through a friendly,
incurious group of young Americans who sat at little round tables in
groups of three and four. Major Bronner responded to a dozen greetings
as they crossed to a table set for two at the edge of the veranda. In
a moment the deft tableboy had their service under way.

"Well," began the Major, "you will have a busy time of it during the
rest of your stay--I wish it were to be longer. This afternoon I want
you to come to the office with me--there are lots of things to talk
over about your work down there. The Governor will see you about five
o'clock. How do you like Zamboanga?"

"It's clean, and interesting, Major."

"'Clean and interesting!' That is a boost! Though we can't take much
credit for the 'interesting'--the Moros furnish that!"

The white-smocked servants moved noiselessly about the cool veranda,
serving the score of Americans with that perfect impersonal care found
nowhere except among Oriental servitors: the subdued clatter of silver
against dish and the tinkle of iced drinks was often drowned in
outbursts of merriment from one or other of the little tables. Most of
the Americans were mere youths, though two were evidently in their
forties. Bronner noted Terry's study of a group of three who sat
nearby, heavily tanned men evidently not quite at home in the club.

"Davao planters," he explained. "Hemp planters: you will know them.
Three good men: they're going down on your boat."

Lunch finished, coffee and cigars furnished excuse for the white-clad
crowd t