The men, for the most part, wore cotton trousers. Some of the women wore dresses, some only cotton skirts, and some were in native grass skirts. “There’s that tall, slim one turning the roast,” Jack whispered. “What tall, slim one?” Stew replied. “Oh! I didn’t tell you!” Jack laughed softly. “I’ve seen her before.” “You would!” Stew mocked. Over near one corner of the fire two dusky maidens were baking some sort of cakes and stacking them in appetizing piles. The roasting of the porker appeared to have been left to the tall, slim girl. She turned and twisted it, prodded it with a huge fork, then turned it again. At last, taking up a large knife, she cut off a slice, held it up, and blew on it to cool it. At once from the throng rose an expectant murmur. Stew joined in. “Keep still, Stew!” Jack warned in a whisper. Without really knowing why, Jack had brought the monkey on his shoulder. Now the little fellow stirred uneasily. The girl at last handed the slice of bronzed pork to an old man with a long, wrinkled face. Carving off a small portion, he put it in his mouth. For a space of seconds his face was a study. Then it was lighted by a wide grin. He said a single word. At that the crowd exploded with joyous anticipation. “It’s done. The porker is roasted. And we don’t get even a bite,” Stew groaned. “What a life!” Then a strange thing happened. The crowd lapsed into silence. Only the snapping of bursting coals could be heard as the natives bowed their heads while the girl said a few words in a low tone. “Grace before meat,” Stew whispered. “What more can you ask?” “Plenty,” was Jack’s reply. “The Nazis and the Japs also pray. Then they go out to massacre women, children, and helpless prisoners of war. We’ll wait and see.” As if this scene awakened memories in his small brain, the monkey on Jack’s shoulder stirred, danced for a second, then gave an immense leap that landed him almost in the center of the throng. “Now we’ve got to beat it! They’ll be looking for us! Let’s scram!” It was a disconsolate Stew who trudged along the native trail toward their camp. “Lot we gained by that!” he grumbled. “Just a look at a grand feed! They were putting slices of pork between cakes when we left. Besides, we lost our monkey!” “We know more about the natives now,” said Jack. “Lot more. They say grace and eat nurses!” Stew mocked. “We couldn’t prove that. Perhaps the nurse gave them her dog tag.” “Fine chance!” Stew lapsed into silence. Jack was not thinking of the natives now, but of Ted, Kentucky, and all the other fellows on the _Black Bee_. “If they attack Mindanao before we get back to the ship, I’ll never recover,” he thought. “Hush!” Stew stopped to listen. Faint and far away they caught a long-drawn wail like a bow drawn slowly over the C string of a violin. “The Howler is coming back to roost,” said Stew. “Sounds that way,” Jack agreed. “Boy! I’d like to have one more look at that plane!” Stew said eagerly.