the road
with a string between his fingers; and, following in the upper layers of
air, a buzzing kite; and, down in the dust of the highway, an urchin
trudging wistfully after the kite, drawn on irresistibly, in spite of
his better judgment, on and on, horrified but fascinated, up to the
yawning school-door.

It would have been the better way. "I ought to go and soak my head,"
murmured the Maestro pensively.

This was check number one, but others came in quick succession.

For the morning after this incident the Maestro did not find Isidro
among the weird, wild crowd gathered into the annex (a transformed sugar
storehouse) by the last raid of the Municipal Police.

Neither was Isidro there the next day, nor the next. And it was not till
a week had passed that the Maestro discovered, with an inward blush of
shame, that his much-longed-for pupil was living in the little hut
behind his own house. There would have been nothing shameful in the
overlooking--there were seventeen other persons sharing the same
abode--were it not that the nipa front of this human hive had been blown
away by the last baguio, leaving an unobstructed view of the interior,
if it might be called such. As it was, the Municipal Police was
mobilized at the urgent behest of the Maestro. Its "cabo," flanked by
two privates armed with old German needle-guns, besieged the home, and
after an interesting game of hide-and-go-seek, Isidro was finally caught
by one arm and one ear, and ceremoniously marched to school. And there
the Maestro asked him why he had not been attending.

"No hay pantalones"--there are no pants--Isidro answered, dropping his
eyes modestly to the ground.

This was check number two, and unmistakably so, for was it not a fact
that a civil commission, overzealous in its civilizing ardor, had passed
a law commanding that every one should wear, when in public, "at least
one garment, preferably trousers?"

Following this, and an unsuccessful plea upon the town tailor who was on
a three weeks' vacation on account of the death of a fourth cousin, the
Maestro shut himself up a whole day with Isidro in his little nipa
house; and behind the closely-shut shutters engaged in some mysterious
toil. When they emerged again the next morning, Isidro wended his way to
the school at the end of the Maestro's arm, trousered!

The trousers, it must be said, had a certain cachet of distinction. They
were made of calico-print, with a design of little bl