He led them through a furious set of exercises in which he himself took part enthusiastically, the perspiration cascading down his nose. "You poor, scrawny weaklings," he said, at last, beaming upon the breathless little assemblage. "Never you mind; I'll make men of you." Then he started to go. "Give them reading," he shouted to his native assistant from the door, "and breathing exercises every half hour." But he came back, on an after-thought, and placed under the nose of his faithful colleague the piece of sodden paper he had picked up on the plaza. The man's skin went yellow beneath the brown. "Papa Isio," he whispered. "Just, what I thought," said the Maestro, nodding to himself. "And he says he is coming here, doesn't he?" "Yes, sir. He will come and burn the pueblo. That is the way he burned Cabayan last year." "Gol darn it, don't I know it?" ejaculated the pedagogue, fiercely. "And didn't I lose my brand-new seven-dollar Spalding punching-bag? Well, we'll set him on his head this time." "Yes, sir," meekly answered the assistant, who had not caught the full import of the explosive questions. But the maestro did not hear him. He was out already and making his way to the cuartel. Roberts was dismissing the company when he arrived. "Hello, you take them now," said the officer, as he saw the Maestro--Professor of Military Gymnastics also, by common consent--near him. "And, by the way," he added, with suppressed glee, "how's the toe?" The Maestro did not answer. He was working at the inside of his khaki jacket. With some trouble he drew out a flat, oblong box. From this he took a piece of yellow leather and a shining object that looked like a bicycle pump. He inserted the mouth of the pump into a hole in the leather and worked the handle up and down in rapid movement. The thing began to swell and take shape. Finally it looked like a great leather egg. He threw it on the ground, toward one of the loafing soldiers, and the latter, as an automaton worked by some powerful spring, hurled himself headfirst at it, grasped it inside of both arms, and lay on it, while the rest of the company poured upon him in an avalanche. "How's that, eh?" asked the schoolmaster, turning upon the Lieutenant an eye that winked. He did not wait for an answer. At a signal the company had formed into a long, crouching line. He placed himself behind it, took a quick step, and booted the pigskin a resounding whack. At the sound the whole line galloped off in ferocious pursuit, and when, after describing a beautiful parabola, the ball bumped along the ground, it was smothered at the second bounce beneath the gross weight of the company. "And how's that?" asked the Maestro, in tone still more compelling. He turned to his men. "The 'Varsity," he called, a trifle pompously. Eleven men stood out from the rest and lined up in a team. "Six, eight, fifteen!" he shouted. The team went through the pantomime of a fierce mass on centre.