Thus, a strange scene was being enacted at the Zamboanga wharf. From all directions weird crafts made their way hesitatingly toward it. The sentries were distrustfully scrutinized, but not a soldier was armed.
“See, Kali Pandapatan, I told you the new governor was good. He trusts us and permits us to enter his barrio as friends.” Proudly the tribe’s charm boy sprang from the war-prau, and, to the astonishment of the soldiers, as well as the Moros, strutted up to the sergeant in charge and offered his hand, American fashion.
“I’ll be dinged, if it ain’t Piang!” exclaimed Sergeant Greer. “Is this your old man, Piang?” he asked genially, pointing to Kali Pandapatan. The old chief stiffened at the apparent familiarity.
“Him big chief! Him Kali Pandapatan,” hastily corrected Piang.
“Excuse me, sor; no hard feelings, I hope. Had a rough trip over, I hear; how did you leave the missus?”
When the remark had been interpreted, a murmur rippled through Kali’s ranks, and hands flew to hips. No Moro permits his women to be spoken of.
“What’s all the fuss, kid?” asked the sergeant, innocently.
With an impish grin, Piang replied:
“Him no like talk about missus; him got twenty.”
“The deuce he has!” laughed the sergeant. “Some old scout!”