"Of course; Spanish or English would be fatal to fellows who look the part that we're rigged up to play."
Hal walked on, steadily, though with caution. Noll kept a few feet behind him until the gully widened, then stepped to his chum's side.
Neither spoke. There was danger in unnecessary conversation. They had covered six hundred feet more when they felt, rather than saw, that they were nearing the further end of the gully.
At last they stepped out into the open—then received a sudden shock. Less than a dozen feet away a Moro sentry, rifle on shoulder, halted, regarding them keenly.
"Manu batto dobi kem," murmured Hal to his chum, in a low voice. Noll answered in the same low tone. Both were shaking with more than the chill of the rain, but Hal turned to the sentry, inquiring mildly:
"Hoppo tuti sen antrim mak?"
The Moro sentry shook his head. He did not understand that dialect.
"Basta morti hengo pas tum," murmured Hal regretfully, hesitating before the sentry.
"Manga tim no troka," remarked Noll.
Hal turned slowly, nodding at his chum. Then both strolled along, the sentry merely staring after them.