"I'll be glad to, Sarge, for I'll admit that I'm anxious to know what the goo-goos are doing."
"At present they're not trying to advance," replied Sergeant Overton, "and that's about all we're interested in. As long as they stay where they are, and waste their ammunition, they'll not bother us much."
In the meantime Lieutenant Prescott was seated in a chair behind the high wall of dirt before the house door. The elder Seaforth occupied another chair.
"Have you any idea, sir, how you incurred the wrath of these Moro rascals?" asked the young lieutenant.
"By refusing to pay blackmail," replied the planter bluntly.
"Then you were asked to pay money to some of these native chieftains?"
"No."
"Eh?"
"I wasn't asked; I was commanded to do so," replied Mr. Seaforth slowly. "When you speak of the Moro rascals, Lieutenant, don't conclude that all of the Moros are bad, or even troublesome. The truth is that most of the Moros on the island of Mindanao are good fellows. They're lazy, but not notably vicious. There are a few of the old-time chiefs—dattos, they call 'em—who make trouble every now and then. These dattos never respected the Spanish Government, and they don't feel any more kindly towards the United States Government. That is because these dattos have always lived by plunder, and they always intend to do so. For one thing, these raiding dattos don't like to have white men on Mindanao. The spread of civilization here means that the old-time dattos will be driven into the wilds, and that there won't be any more plunder or blackmail money to live on. These Moros out yonder wouldn't have bothered me, this time, if I had paid the money their chief demanded."
"How much did he want, Mr. Seaforth?"