"Dog Meat," Rick said, grinning, as the two knocked on Tony Briotti's door. "It may be a fine old ceremonial name in this part of the world, but to me it's just a meal for Dismal."
Dismal was the Brant family pup. When Rick thought of the pagans eating dog, he always thought of Dismal served up as a roast, and the thought made him ill. He had decided that he might admire the fine qualities of the Igorot and Ifugao people, but the mental image of Dismal among the poor, beaten mongrels in the dog market would always keep him from being really fond of them.
Tony failed to answer the door. "Probably gone down to breakfast already," Scotty said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Chahda won't have much trouble finding Nast. Baguio isn't very big and there aren't very many Americans. Wonder what Nast will try to do?"
Rick shrugged. "How can we guess? There are so many things about this part of the world we don't know. He might have two dozen slick tricks up his sleeve. The best thing we can do is be on guard all the time. I'm glad we sent Angel out to guard the plane."
As they passed the hotel desk, the clerk hailed them. "Mr. Brant? A message for you."
"Probably from Chahda," Rick said. But he was wrong. The note was from Tony, and it made Rick's eyes widen. He read it aloud:
"'Dear boys. Woke up at dawn with something nagging at me. It broke through my thick skull while I was having coffee. The Ifugao No Palate must be Nangolat. It's the name Okola mentioned—his prize student. I know of no other Ifugao with even a less remote connection. Also, the shape of Angel's face bothers me. I am going to the airport on a hunch. Be back about eight, with Angel.'"
Scotty pointed to a wall clock. It was nearly nine o'clock. They had slept late.
The two boys, without a word, ran for the door. Outside the hotel a Filipino taxi waited. They jumped in and gasped in one voice: "Baguio Airport!"
"The chucklehead," Scotty groaned. "Why didn't he wake us up? Why did he have to go alone?"