Boy Scouts in the Philippines; Or, The Key to the Treaty Box

by G. Harvey Ralphson

Knowing little of what there was to be done, or of what was expected of him, Ned had accepted the invitation to enter the Secret Service, stipulating only that his chums should be permitted to accompany him to Uncle Sam's new and somewhat unruly possessions in Asia.

"I won't go if we can't make a Boy Scout outing of it," he had insisted. "I shall be glad to be of service to the government, but I want the boys to have a jolly time, too. There must be plenty of opportunities for adventure in the Philippines," he had added, thinking of the many odd customs of the tribes of natives on the twelve hundred islands that constitute the group.

"I shall be only too glad to have your friends go," the Major had replied, "for I understand that they contributed not a little to the success of your efforts in Mexico and the Canal Zone."

"I couldn't have done a thing without them," had been Ned's generous reply, and so it was all arranged.

However, only three of the boys who had accompanied Ned from New York to the Canal Zone had been at liberty to go to the Philippines, the others reluctantly turning back home. The three to go were now assembled in the cabin occupied by Frank Shaw, looking out to the dim line of land.

Frank Shaw was the son of the owner and editor of an influential daily newspaper in New York, Jack Bosworth was the son of a wealthy board of trade man, and Jimmie McGraw was a Bowery newsboy who had attached himself to Ned Nestor, his patrol leader, just before the visit to Mexico and had clung to him like a puppy to a root, as the saying is, ever since.

"Come on, boys," Ned said, after an inspection of the ocean through the port, "let's go on deck. We can see the whole show from there."

The boys trooped up to the rail and were soon joined by Major Ross. It was now a little after dawn, and a sunrise breeze was lifting little ripples on an otherwise motionless sea. Spread out, a couple of miles away, was the outline of shore the siren was greeting.

It was a low coast, stretching away to right and left until lost in the mists of the morning. It looked monotonous and furry with forests, deserted and still, but in time the presence of man became observable.

A river wound down out of the trees and broke over a bar set against its mouth in the sea. On the right bank of the stream a tin roof glistened in the early sunlight. Wherever there is a tin roof there is civilization in some degree, though this seemed to be a sleepy one.