“Here’s your passport, kid,” he had said with a grin. Piang carefully unrolled the paper and stared at the queer American characters. A sailor offered to translate it for him, but when he glanced over the paper, he uttered a low whistle.
“Say, you go away back and sit down! Don’t you come near me or any one else, sabe?”
Piang recoiled before the look of disgust on the sailor’s face. What was the matter with every one? Why were they all afraid to come near him, and where were they taking him? He summoned up enough courage to ask who had written the letter, and when he was told that it was signed by Governor Findy, he felt reassured. Surely if the good governor was sending him somewhere, it would be all right. Disconsolately, Piang crouched in a corner, watching sharks and dolphins sporting in the foaming wake. He wondered how long the boat was going to be out, if it would return in time for him to save the governor. When he started toward a group of men to ask for information he was met with a shout.
“Get out of here, you!” they yelled, and poor Piang hurriedly retreated to the stern. Much talk of the coming baile seemed to indicate that the sailors expected to return before evening, so Piang patiently squatted on a coil of rope, wondering when the mysteries of his errand would be revealed to him.
The ocean is dotted with many lovely islands off Zamboanga. Somber, lowering Basilan guards its secrets to this day; Sacol, home of Dato Mandi, invites and then repels the intruder; tiny clumps of vivid green rise out of the channel in the most unexpected places, as if timidly wishing to investigate before adding their emerald mite to crown the Celebes. The island toward which the Sabah was making her way seemed blacker and denser than its more frivolous neighbors. Two staccato whistles warned the islanders of the Sabah’s approach, and the beach was soon the scene of lively commotion. The engines stopped, and the gunboat slid along easily. A boat was lowered. The sailors were speaking in low voices; one looked toward Piang and shook his head sadly.
“My task is not to be an easy one,” thought the charm boy, but his head went up proudly. These sailor men should see how a brave Moro executed the commands of his superiors.
“Come on, kid,” called a jacky, and just as Piang stepped over the side a kindly sailor slipped a quarter in his hand. It was evidently a gift, and the boy grinned appreciatively.
“Wastin’ your coin, man,” remarked another sailor with a harsh laugh. “He’s not likely to need dinero (a silver coin) soon.” Piang wondered again at the pitying looks that were cast at him, but he only held his head higher and climbed into the boat. The men seemed in a great hurry; they landed far up the beach, and bags and provisions were hastily dumped on the sand.
“Here you are, young ’un,” said a sailor, and Piang looked up eagerly.
“Me, here?”