When confronted by the officers, I told the tale of our adventure: of our having followed the bark of a deer leading us into a labyrinth of perplexity (as dears sometimes do!), of our difference in opinion, the friendly attitude of the Moros, and the kindness of a Filipino in conducting me to his casa, where I was provided with quarters for the night. Iddles corroborated my story as far as it related to himself, and dwelt particularly on the friendliness of the Moros of the Amadao Valley. After asking various questions in cross examination, the captain said, “Well, men, I am glad to see you alive; your adventure has been of some profit.” Then, turning to Sergeant McKenzie, he said, “If two of our men can go into the jungle as these men did, mingling in friendship with the natives without being molested, I can see no necessity of continuing the outpost; stand relieved, break camp, and return to the garrison.” There was no court-martial, scarcely a reprimand, and the soldiers of the outpost tendered Jim and me a vote of thanks for the hand we played in getting them back to the comforts of the barracks. It is a singular fact that a few months later, on the renewal of hostilities in the Lake region, a band of Moros of the Amadao Valley, under the leadership of a noted “Datto,” offered their services to the commanding officer at Polloc. Like the American Indians, the Moros are divided into tribes, among whom for ages past there has been strife or contention for superiority. Our two years having expired in foreign service, the detachment was ordered to Olongapo to join the homeward-bound battalion. Shortly after this we bade adieu to Moroland and swung out of the bay of Prang Prang _en route_ to the Island of Luzon. X. A Midnight Phantasy in California The Vision――The Capture――“Frisco” and Its Favorite Haunts. Having had considerable experience with copper thieves in the navy yards of Washington, D. C., New York, and Cavite, Philippine Islands, I was not overly surprised when, about midnight late in the autumn of 1903, while serving in the capacity of patrol at the Mare Island Navy Yard, California, as I chanced along the waterfront, to see the shadow of an apparent river pirate, presumably collecting copper bars from a large pile of this valuable metal. The man evidently, it appeared to me, had a boat in which he was storing the bars to be rowed across the channel to Valejo, the old Spanish gambling town and gold-miners’ retreat of the old days.