ey and that we didn't come here to take pictures of Loie Fuller
stuff."

"I think it might be as well to let them take their time about it,"
remarked Captain Link. "These Moros always get very much worked up in
their war-dances, and occasionally they forget that it is all
make-believe and send a spear into a spectator. It's safer to leave
them alone. They're very temperamental."

"That would make a corking picture," said Hawkinson enthusiastically,
"if I only knew which fellow was going to be speared so that I could
get the camera focussed on him."

"The only trouble is," I remarked dryly, "that they might possibly pick
out _you_."

* * * * *

In Spanish bull-fights, after the banderillos and picadores have
tormented the bull until it is exhausted, the matador flaunts a scarlet
cloak in front of the beast until it is bewildered and then despatches
it with a sword. In Moroland, however, the bulls, which are bred and
trained for the purpose, do their best to kill each other, thus making
the fight a much more sporting proposition. The bull-fight which was
arranged for our benefit at Parang was staged in a field of about two
acres just outside the town, the spectators being kept at a safe
distance by a troop of Moro horsemen under the direction of the old
Panglima. After Hawkinson had set up his camera on the edge of this
extemporized arena the bulls were brought in: medium-sized but
exceptionally powerful beasts, the muscles rippling under their sleek
brown coats, their short horns filed to the sharpness of lance-tips.
Each animal was led by its owner, who was able to control it to a
limited degree during the fight by means of a cord attached to the ring
in its nose. When the signal was given for the fight to begin, the
bulls approached each other cautiously, snorting and pawing the ground.
They reminded me of two strange dogs who cannot decide whether they
wish to fight or be friends. For ten minutes, regardless of the jeers
of the spectators and the proddings of their handlers, the great brown
beasts rubbed heads as amicably as a yoke of oxen. Then, just as we had
made up our minds that it was a fiasco and that there would be no
bull-fight pictures, there was a sudden angry bellow, the two great
heads came together with a thud like a pile-driver, and the fight was
on. The next twenty minutes Hawkinson and I spent in alternately
setting up his camera within range of the panting, strain