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

by G. Harvey Ralphson

There was no doubt in the mind of the boy now that he had found the man he had set out in quest of. Of course the man who had planned the conspiracy, who was doubtless assisting the tribes to arms and ammunition by way of the unpatrolled China Sea, was the one he aimed to reach in time. The sailor was only a link in the chain which led to the object sought.

The mind of the boy was not at that time much concerned with thoughts for his own safety although he could never be in more deadly peril than he was at that moment when he was looked at through the opening in the door. His one idea was to get a view of the spy, and with this object in view he arose and stepped toward the door.

"You're getting sleepy," he said to the sailor, "and I'll go out and get a little fresh air while you sleep. I shall not be far away."

"You're a good fellow," Brown cried, already half asleep. "When I get out of this I'll tell you something that'll make your fortune. Bring back another bottle of gin. Thish mos' gone!"

Ned stood by the door for a moment in order to give the spy time to get back to the bottom of the stairs. He could see no profit in a struggle in that place, and there was certain to be one if he permitted the spy to know that his movements had been observed.

Finally he heard soft footsteps on the stairs. He waited only an instant after this before passing out into the narrow hall. The staircase was clear, but a door opening into it from the public room below was open and a broad zone of light lay on the floor of the passage and on the wall.

Ned stood in the doorway and looked out on the street, now and then turning his eyes in the direction of the public room. At a table well toward the back end of the place he saw the man he was looking for. He was seated at a table with two men who appeared to be American sailors. While he stood there, wondering at the inefficiency of the disguise the man wore, at the nerve which prompted him to wear that fragment of native costume when his face, manner and accent bespoke the cultured American another sailor came swaggering into the place.

This sailor was unquestionably intoxicated. He swayed back and forth as he walked, and would have fallen to the floor at the very door only for the restraining hand of a boy who accompanied him. Immediately on his appearance waiters rushed forward to attend to his wants, to give him a chair and a table, and to pay him all sorts of little attentions.

In such places in all foreign ports the American sailor is the easy mark. He drinks—when he drinks at all—until he is past all wisdom regarding the expenditure of money, with the result that he literally throws it away. In the appearance of this sailor the attendants saw a rich harvest, not only for the place but for themselves.

But Ned saw more than this. He saw the freckled face and sparkling eyes of Jimmie McGraw, steering the drunken sailor to the table pointed out for him. The boy was in high humor, for he joked with the blundering sailor, and instead of sitting down at the table—brought into use there because the foreigners insist on not drinking sitting on the floor—he sat down on it and swung his feet downward.