It was not that the train was cumbersome. It consisted, in fact, only of three carros, the first one containing the widow, the second the camphor-wood chest, inside of which was the town treasury, and the third, Mr. Rued, second-class inspector Philippine constabulary--a roaring mad inspector, it might be added, and tied up like a sausage. He had been surprised in bed; the ignominy of his taking was deep in his soul, and found vent in a stream of expressions Biblical and strenuous and not at all complimentary to his captors. No, the widow was the matter. It was that curious performance of Mr. Rued which caused the first outbreak. After listening meditatively for some ten minutes, the widow suddenly realised that here was something highly improper. "Colonel," she cried, rising in her cart like a jack-in-the-box, "you will please place more distance between me and that blasphemous person yonder." There was a pause in the procession. New intervals were tried. But the widow's carabao was slow, and the inspector's, possibly impressed by the fervent soliloquy going on behind him, persisted in coming up within earshot. "Captain, I refuse to continue under the present conditions," ultimatumed the widow. And, springing out of her cart, she squatted resolutely in the centre of the road and refused to budge. A happy inspiration came to Gomez. He appealed to the inspector's chivalry. The inspector was cooling a bit by this time, and he was a man of some intelligence. "You cut that rope that holds me like a chicken," he said, "and I'll parleyvoo." Gomez cut the rope, and the inspector agreed to keep his feelings unexpressed. The procession moved on. The carabaos laboured, the carros creaked and groaned and wailed. The sun mounted, more biting every moment. The ladrones lit cigarettes and shuffled along the road. The widow dozed. A more pronounced lurch of her cart suddenly awakened her, and again her clamour was resounding in the heated silence. Again it was the unlucky inspector. His cart had crept up little by little, till close to the widow's, and her eyes had opened upon the fact that he was not properly clad. Now, such a thing at times is excusable. It isn't your fault if a band of pestiferous ladrones pounce upon you in the morning and whisk you out in your pajamas. "Sergeant," shrilled the widow (with concern Gomez noticed that each time she addressed him it was with a diminution of title). "Sergeant, dress that man!" Gomez demurred. Again the widow sprang from her cart and sat in the road. Again the train was blocked. "I will not budge till you have clothed that man," the widow declared. "I insist upon a pair of trousers." There was a hurried questioning of the band, a general denegation, and Gomez returned, discouraged. "Señora, no hay pantalones," he announced. "Give him one of your own men's," she commanded briefly.