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"I don't know much about this part of the country," said Dan, as we drew away from the American camp witji great caution. "I wish we could pick up a native guide. He might save us from a lot of trouble."

"There are natives enough around, if only they can be trusted. Let us strike the first man we meet and see what he has to say."

Leaving camp was an easy matter, for as yet military rule was rather lax. We took a small side trail, that presently brought us in sight of a collection of rude bamboo huts, one burning and all deserted. Back of the huts we found a tall negro sitting on a tree stump, his lean chin resting in the palm of an equally lean hand.

Dan called to him in Spanish, but the man did not stir until my chum walked up and shook him by the shoulder. Then he stared at us from eyes buried deeply in their sockets.

His tale was soon told. His wife had been shot down in a skirmish around the bamboo huts on the day that the Spanish soldiers had retreated from Cavité to Manila, and his only child