"And worst of all, all of my Bogobos quit me, so that instead of cornering the labor market in Davao I lost most of what I had! I'm punching the bag every day now, getting in shape to greet the next hombre that tries to sell me a machine!"
He joined goodnaturedly in the laugh which filled the room and when it subsided turned to the Major gratefully.
"Major, my hemp lay rotting in my fields: it meant serious loss to me—it would have wiped me out. But Lieutenant Terry heard about it and without saying anything to me, went among the Bogobos and persuaded sixty of them to work for me—the most I ever had was thirty-one. He has a wonderful hold upon them—they will do anything he says: and I'm not the only one he has helped out; am I, boys?"
A dozen planters supported him, enthusiastic, vehement.
Cochran knew the Major intimately, his hobbies and aversions. He turned to him solemnly.
"Married yet, Major?"
"Who—me? I guess not! No petticoats for mine!"
In the laugh which rose over Cochran's elicitation of the bachelor's invariable formula, several of the planters moved their chairs near the Major's table. All of these quiet, efficient Constabulary were well liked, and the Major had been known to many of these Davao pioneers since the days when they had fought together against insurrectos, cholera, torturing sun, treachery; the days when capture had meant the agony of dissection piecemeal, hamstringing, the ant hill.
The Major's face had relapsed into gravity: "Lieutenant Terry is well liked, then?" he suggested.
Lindsey replied, earnestly: "Major, he owns this whole Gulf. He hasn't an enemy—not counting that gang of Malabanan's up the coast."