“There he lies!,” said one of the privates in a quick out-spoken voice.
“Amigo,” (a friend) said the stretched-out form, as three guns were raised in unison with the anxious muzzles pointing directly at him.
“Este no quere combate” (you don’t desire to fight), said the corporal, in crude Spanish.
“Mucho amigo” (very friendly), came the reply.
“Vamose aque!” (come here), commanded the corporal.
With his eyes fixed in theirs, the Filipino raised himself slowly up and came toward the three Americans who stood but twelve feet away.
“Take him by the arms,” said the corporal to the two privates who were with him, “while I look behind that rice-dyke to see if he had a gun.”
“Here’s what the rascal was up to,” said the corporal, holding a Mauser above his head. “Good thing you saw him when you did, Jack.”
The storm was coming nearer; the first gust of wind had just struck them. It blew back the Filipino’s little checkered frock. The corporal saw a glitter.
“Watch out! boys, he’s got a machete under his coat,” said the corporal.