About three o’clock one scorching afternoon we struck a trail in a remote section of the San Madre Mountains which indicated that cartellos drawn by caribous made daily trips over this road. While resting at this point, the day suddenly grew dark and it became perceptible to us all that a typhoon was approaching. The lieutenant in command of the party, being a recent graduate of West Point and having had little experience in the field, was slow to comprehend what might be the consequence if a raging typhoon was to encompass this party in the jungle. I suggested to him that we select a place at once and spread canvas. To this he acquiesced, and ordered me to take a Filipino and follow the trail until I reached a place of shelter suitable for the pitching of a camp. With one of my cargadores, “Blinky” (with whom I had just had a scrap for paring potatoes with a bolo), I hit the trail, and had covered about one mile when my eyes fell on a bamboo shack which appeared to be unoccupied. On investigation I found it to be an unusually fine casa for this mountain district. I found earthenware olios filled with water, dry wood, and a stone grate, but no sign of any occupants. Tearing a leaf from my note-book, I informed the lieutenant of our good fortune in having shelter from the typhoon without the necessity of pitching tents, dispatched “Blinky” with the message, and ere long the cartello and party had arrived. A fire having been made, the coffee was put on to boil, the natives pared the potatoes, while I sliced the bacon and opened several cans of corn and salmon. The salmon was served to the Filipinos with rice. After a hearty supper by candle-light, cigarettes were smoked, blankets spread on the bamboo floor, and we all stretched out for a good night’s sleep. The advance guard of the typhoon had arrived; a terrific wind, which whistled through the palms and nippa-roof, threatened at times to carry our shack away. Deep peals of thunder reverberated from the aerial regions, while dangerous flashes of blazoned lightning tore through the celestial firmament. “A nice night for a murder,” remarked Corporal “Free,” of the Sixth Cavalry. There was little sleep that night, which was evidenced in the morning by the numerous sacks of “Bull Durham” that lay scattered on the floor. The storm continued throughout the following day, abating on toward midnight. The following morning deep gullies were worn in the soil, streams were flooded, while the drooping palms presented a scene of picturesque desolation. Overhead the fleecy clouds hovered round the blazing sun which cast its rays through the spice-laden atmosphere.