For several hours the rebels paid but scant attention 77 to him, further than to furnish him a bowl of rice “pap,” from which he might sup while it was held to his lips. They also gave him a drink of water, and one young rebel considerately washed the wound on his head, on which the blood had dried, presenting anything but a pleasant sight.
As the hours went by the rebels around the cave kept increasing in numbers until there were several hundred all told. Those who came in last told of the complete downfall of Santa Cruz, but none of them had the least idea of what the Americans were going to do next. “Perhaps they will follow us to here,” said one, grimly.
“No, they know better than to follow us into the jungles and mountains,” said the leader, Fipile. “If they did that, we could shoot them down like so many monkeys.” They had still to learn the true character of the tireless general who had now taken up their trail, and who knew no such words as fear or failure.
It was well toward noon of the day following when Captain Fipile came in to have a talk with Larry. He spoke English remarkably well, for he had spent several years of his life in San Francisco, and in Hong Kong among the English located at that port.
“Your name, my boy,” he said, sitting down beside the young tar. And when Larry had given it, he continued, “You were with the American troops who carried Santa Cruz?”
“I was, sir, although I got into the city before they did.”
“Indeed, and how was that?” questioned the Filipino leader, and Larry told as much of his story as he deemed necessary.
To the tale Captain Fipile listened with interest, even smiling when Larry told how he had broken out of the prison. “You did wonderfully well for a boy,” he remarked. “A man could not have done more. What became of your friend?”
“I left him at the warehouse. I hope he rejoined the soldiers.”