Looking up, he flushed under the Major's quizzical gaze. "Major, those planters at the club have been stuffing you!" he complained. The Major gravely discussed Malabanan. "Terry, you may not have to move against him--I hope not, anyway. But I want you to be in a position to finish anything he starts. Do you want me to send you an additional company?" "No--I can handle anything in reason with the Macabebes." "What did you do with the secret service man I sent down?" "I planted him up the coast where he can watch that gang." Terry unfolded his plans for handling the situation should the ladrones break loose upon the Gulf, and the Major was satisfied. "It hardly seems possible," he said, "that they will try it--but with only one company here to cover the whole Gulf--and in so remote a settlement--it may look like easy pickings. But if Malabanan dares--you smash him!" The threatened rainstorm had passed to the north, leaving the night clear and cool: a strong breeze fluttered the lamp. Matak entered to clear the table and Terry, who had not eaten the fried chicken, pushed it toward the Moro with goodnatured impatience. "Matak, this chicken is only half cooked: I've warned the cook several times--tell him to eat it." Matak, silent and grim as ever, bore the offending dish out, while Terry turned to the Major to discuss the morrow's sport. In a moment their voices were drowned by the crash of dishes falling in the kitchen, then a fearsome shriek reached the startled pair, a moaning cry terminating abruptly in a choking gurgle. They sprang up and into the kitchen. Matak was astride the prostrate Visayan in the midst of the broken crockery and bent tinware spilled from the upset table. He had the cook's mouth pried open in determined endeavor to ram what looked like half a chicken down the Visayan's gullet. Half-strangled and crazed with fear the cook rolled his eyes beseechingly. Bronner raised Matak bodily and Terry helped the trembling Filipino to his feet. He turned to Matak sternly. "What does this mean?" "He would not eat it, master." The cook broke in, almost hysterical: "Matak say I must eat cheecken, that you say so. I say 'all right, eat to-morrow.' He say 'eat now.' I say 'no, to-morrow.' Then he fight. I no eat to-day--notheeng--to-day church fast day!" As recollection came of his joking instructions to the ever serious Matak, Terry turned to the Major but he had run from the kitchen, choking. Having patched up a truce between them, Terry followed the Major into the sala. At sight of his rueful face the Major burst into fresh laughter. "His fast day!" he chuckled. "These Moros are sure literal-minded--they follow your words exactly. I've had some queer examples in the past year."