Piang was caught. In his excitement he had failed to watch for the coming of his enemies, and now he must fight. Swiftly the vinta approached. Piang could see it through the water, and he watched until it was over his head. With a lunge, he struck at it with all his might, upsetting it and throwing the occupant out. With a yell the man grabbed Piang, and the startled boy recognized his old enemy Sicto, the outcast, who drifted from tribe to tribe, a parasite on all who would tolerate him. He was making his home with the lake people just now, and had discovered Piang's hiding-place. Guessing that the boy was after the secret of the rice, he had watched his chance and had pounced on him when the boy was least able to protect himself.

Over and over they rolled, splashing and fighting. Piang was struggling for breath, but luckily he still had his bolo in his hand. The big bully was sure to win the fight unless Piang could escape soon, as he was already winded and exhausted. A happy thought flashed through his mind. He watched for one of the tortoises to swim near the surface, and then shrieking, "Crocodile!" he pointed toward it. When the frightened Sicto shrank from the tortoise, Piang struck with all his might, but he was so weak and his knife was so heavy that he only stunned his adversary.

Then he was away like a flash. Before the bully could recover, Piang had righted the vinta and was paddling off in the direction of the river. Sicto tried to follow him, but Piang only laughed and paddled faster. He was free again, had a boat, and knew the secret of the rice! Allah was indeed good to little Piang.

Stubbornly he fought the current; patiently he worked against the swift water. At last he was in the river, but he knew that the Moros were in pursuit by now. That they did not appear in the river behind him was no reason to feel safe. He was sure they would try to head him off on foot, as the river wound round and round through the valleys. The odds were certainly against Piang. He was in a strange country, unfamiliar with the trails, and being hunted by the swiftest tribe of Moros. The Ganassi trail was out of the question. It would be lined with the lake people watching for him. The jungle he had worked his way through would be searched and his recent camping sites discovered. Every passable trail to his home would be watched.

Suddenly Piang remembered the "Americano" soldiers! They lived somewhere off in the other direction, beyond the terrible marshlands. Without a moment's hesitation, he headed toward the shore, pulled up the vinta, and secured it. He

then plunged into the stream and swam to the opposite shore. When the lake people found the vinta, they would search that side of the jungle. Piang was pleased at his ruse.

Bravely the boy faced his only avenue of escape. The journey through the marshlands and over the mountains was considered impossible, but Piang was not discouraged. Searching the surrounding jungle, he made sure that he had not been discovered, and, turning his back on his home as well as on his enemies, headed toward the distant peaks, the Dos Hermanos.

"HALT!" The sentry on Post No. 4 wheeled and took aim. There was another rustle in the bushes. "Halt!" came the second warning. Luckily the man was an old soldier, whose nerves were well seasoned. There would only be one more warning; the bullet would come then. Tensely the sentry listened. In the jungle one does not wait long out of curiosity. Just as he was about to utter his ultimatum and emphasize it with lead, a slender form tottered through the bushes and fell to the ground.

"Sure, an' he's a-playin' dead. None of that game for yer Uncle Dudley," and the Irishman, coming to port arms, sang out:

"Corporal of the guard. Number Four!" Never taking his eyes off the still form, he waited. "What's up?" called the corporal, as he came double-timing up the trail with his squad.

"Suspicious greaser," and the sentry pointed at the prostrate form. Cautiously they approached it. Too many times their humane sympathy had been rewarded by treachery. The native did not stir. One of the guard poked him with his foot. There was no resistance.

"Guess he 's all in, all right," announced the corporal. "Heave him up. Never mind the leeches; they won't hurt you," and the boy was lifted to the top of a woodpile. He bore the marks of the jungle. His hands and feet were riddled by thorns, and in places they had penetrated too deep to be removed. His ribs showed plainly through the tightly pulled skin, and everywhere leeches clung to him, sucking the blood from his tired body. The long hair had been jerked from his customary chignon and was straggling around the head. His lithe arms hung listlessly at his side.

"Gosh, he needs a wash bad enough. Must have been starving, too." And with his bayonet the corporal removed the black hair from the face. Uttering an exclamation, he bent over him:

"Well, I'll be dinged! This is the kid Lieutenant Lewis sent up to the lake! How in tarnation did he get to us from this direction?" The

men silently exchanged glances, each remembering their fruitless attempts to make a trail over the Dos Hermanos. Forcing water between the parched lips, the corporal gently shook Piang. The boy opened his eyes and shuddered.

"You 're all right now, little 'un," he heard;

"A SLENDER FORM TOTTERED THROUGH THE BUSHES."

and although Piang did not understand the language, he responded to the kind tone with a weak smile. Slowly getting to his elbow, he motioned toward the garrison:

"Hombre!" ("Man!") he muttered. It was the only Spanish word he knew, and the soldiers guessed that he wanted Lieutenant Lewis.

"WHY, the boy's story is incredible, Lewis. It is simply impossible that a gunboat could be at the bottom of Lake Lanao," General Beech protested, as he walked to and fro in front of his desk in the administration building.

"If you will search the records at headquarters, sir, I think you will find mention of three gunboats that were shipped to this island by the Spanish Government and that mysteriously disappeared on the eve of our occupancy."

And so it turned out. Inquiries among the older natives of the barrio (village) brought confirmation of the report, and weird tales. of transporting the diminutive gunboats in sections over the mountain passes began to float about. Finally, General Beech was convinced, and gave the necessary orders to equip and send an investigating party to the lake. Piang was to be the guide.

The transport Seward carried the troops around to Iligan, and the struggle up the mountain trail to Lake Lanao was begun.

Proudly Piang swung along at the head of the column, guiding them to his recent platform home. Camp was pitched on the shore, and the engineers commenced work at once. The boy

impatiently waited for the divers to fix their cumbersome suits, and when all was ready, he plunged into the water and disappeared. He led them to the boat, then came to the top and swam with eyes down. If there were more boats, he wanted to find them first. The men on the bank were watching his agile movements with interest. With a shout he disappeared again. Yesyes-there was a second boat! And as he circled the sunken craft he spied another near it! Striking out for the shore, he swam to where the general and the lieutenant were waiting.

"What is he chattering about, Ricardo?" asked the general.

"He says he has seen the other two boats, sir." "This is certainly a fortunate discovery, Lewis. I shall make a report to Washington, and you shall be commended for your sagacity."

The young officer flushed with pleasure, but replied, "Thank you, sir, but I think the boy Piang deserves all the credit."

THE day finally came when the tiny flotilla was at last raised, and, gay in its paint and polished metal, gallantly rode at anchor. All the lake tribes were assembled to witness the celebration, and they gazed with wonder at the strange craft. Many Americans had been attracted to the lake by news of the discovery, and the camp had grown to almost twice its original size.

The boats were pronounced seaworthy, and were to be tested. The largest boat, the flagship, was decorated from one end to the other with its faded pennants, but in the stern, proudly proclaiming its present nationality, flew the Stars and Stripes. Under the flag at the bow stood a sturdy, nonchalant figure, arms folded, head erect. Condescendingly Piang swept the crowd of wondering natives with his haughty eye. He paid no more attention to Sicto than to the others. In his supreme self-confidence, Piang scorned to report Sicto to the authorities. He was clothed in a new dignity that put him far above considering such an unworthy opponent as Sicto, and he silently cherished the hope that other opportunities to outwit the outcast would be granted him.

An order was given. A shrill whistle startled the jungle folk. The engines throbbed, and one after another the boats responded. A cheer went up from the banks.

Piang had been given the honor of re-naming the boats. The smallest one bore the name of his mother, Minka. The next was dedicated to the memory of his tribe's greatest hero, Dato Ali, and characteristically, on the bow of the flagship, beneath the boy's feet, glittered the bright gold letters, P-I-A-N-G.

CHAPTER X

A SEWING SOCIETY

THE teacher, who "boarded 'round," was staying at Putney Farm at that time, and that evening, as they all sat around the lamp in the south room, Betsy looked up from her game of checkers with Uncle Henry and asked, "How can anybody drink up stockings?"

"Mercy, child! what are you talking about?” asked Aunt Abigail.

Betsy repeated what Anastasia Monahan had said, and was flattered by the instant, rather startled, attention given her by the grown-ups. "Why, I did n't know that Bud Walker had taken to drinking again!" said Uncle Henry. "My! That's too bad!"

"Who takes care of that child, anyhow, now that poor Susie is dead?" Aunt Abigail asked of everybody in general.

"Is he just living there alone, with that goodfor-nothing stepfather? How do they get enough to cat?" said Cousin Ann, looking troubled.

Apparently Betsy's question had brought into their minds something half forgotten and altogether neglected. They talked for some time after that about 'Lias, the teacher confirming what Betsy and Stashie had said.

"And we sitting right here with plenty to eat and never raising a hand!" cried Aunt Abigail.

"How you will let things slip out of your mind!" said Cousin Ann, remorsefully.

It struck Betsy vividly that 'Lias was not at all the one they blamed for his objectionable appearance. She felt quite ashamed to go on with the things she and the other little girls had said, and fell silent, pretending to be very much absorbed in her game of checkers.

"Do you know," said Aunt Abigail, suddenly, as though an inspiration had just struck her, "I would n't be a bit surprised if that Elmore Pond might adopt 'Lias if he was gone at the right way."

"Who 's Elmore Pond?" asked the schoolteacher.

"Why, you must have seen him-that great, big, red-faced, good-natured-looking man that comes through here twice a year buying stock. He lives over Digby way, but his wife was a

Hillsboro girl, Matey Pelham-an awfully nice girl she was, too. They never had any children, and Matey told me the last time she was back for a visit that she and her husband talked quite often about adopting a little boy. 'Seems that Mr. Pond has always wanted a little boy. He's such a nice man! 'T would be a lovely home for a child."

"But goodness!" said the teacher. "Nobody would want to adopt such an awful-looking little ragamuffin as that 'Lias. He looks so meeching, too. I guess his stepfather is real mean to him, when he 's been drinking, and it 's got 'Lias so he hardly dares hold his head up."

The clock struck loudly. "Well, hear that!" said Cousin Ann. “Nine o'clock, and the children not in bed! Molly 's 'most asleep this minute. Trot along with you, Betsy! Trot along, Molly. And, Betsy, be sure Molly's nightgown is buttoned up all the way."

So it happened that, although the grown-ups were evidently going on to talk about 'Lias Brewster, Betsy heard no more of what they said.

She herself went on thinking about 'Lias while she was undressing and answering absently little Molly's chatter. She was thinking about him even after they had gone to bed, had put the light out, and were lying snuggled up to each other, back to front, their four legs, crooked at the same angle, fitting in together neatly like two spoons in a drawer. She was thinking about him when she woke up, and as soon as she could get hold of Cousin Ann she poured out a new plan. She had never been afraid of Cousin Ann since the evening Molly had fallen into the Wolf Pit and Betsy had seen that pleased smile on Cousin Ann's firm lips. "Cousin Ann, could n't we girls at school get together and sew-you'd have to help us some-and make some nice new clothes for little 'Lias Brewster, and fix him up so he 'll look better and maybe that Mr. Pond will like him and adopt him?"

Cousin Ann listened attentively and nodded her head. "Yes, I think that would be a good idea," she said. "We were thinking last night we ought to do something for him. If you 'll make the clothes, Mother 'll knit him some stockings and Father will get him some shoes. Mr. Pond never makes his spring trip till late in May, so we'll have plenty of time."

Betsy was full of importance that day at school, and at recess-time got the girls together on the rocks and told them of the plan. "Cousin Ann says sure she 'll help us, and we can meet at our house every Saturday afternoon till we get them done. It'll be fun! Aunt Abigail telephoned down to the store right away, and Mr. Wilkins says he 'll give the cloth if we 'll make it up.”

Betsy spoke very grandly of "making it up," although she had hardly held a needle in her life, and when the Saturday afternoon meetings began she was ashamed to see how much better Ellen and even Eliza could sew than she. To keep her end up she was driven to practising her stitches when they all sat around the lamp in the evenings, Aunt Abigail keeping an eye on her.

Cousin Ann supervised the sewing on Saturday afternoons, and taught those of the little girls whose legs were long enough how to use the sewing-machine. First they made a little pair of trousers out of an old gray woolen skirt of Aunt Abigail's. This was for practice, before they cut into the piece of new blue serge that the storekeeper had sent up. Cousin Ann showed them how to pin the pattern on the goods, and they each cut out one piece. Those flat, queer-shaped pieces of cloth certainly did look less like a pair of trousers to Betsy than anything she had ever seen. Then one of the girls read aloud very slowly the mysterioussounding directions from the wrapper of the pattern about how to put the pieces together. Cousin Ann helped here a little, particularly just as they were about to put the sections together wrong side up. Stashie, as the oldest, did the first basting, putting the notches together carefully, just as they read the instructions aloud, and there, all of a sudden, was a rough little sketch of a pair of knee-trousers, without any hem or any waistband, of course, but just the two-legged, complicated shape they ought to be! It was like a miracle to Betsy! Then Cousin Ann helped them sew the seams on the machine, and they all turned to for the basting of the facings and the finishing. They each made one buttonhole. It was the first one Betsy had ever made, and when she got through she was as tired as though she had run all the way to school and back. Tired, but very proud; although when Cousin Ann inspected that buttonhole she covered her face with her handkerchief for a minute, as though she were going to sneeze, although she did n't sneeze at all.

It took them two Saturdays to finish up that trial pair of trousers, and when they showed the result to Aunt Abigail she was delighted.

"Well, to think of that being my old skirt!" she said, putting on her spectacles to examine the work. She did not laugh, either, when she saw those buttonholes, but she got up hastily and went into the next room, where they soon heard her coughing.

Then they made a little blouse out of some new blue gingham. Cousin Ann happened to have enough left over from a dress she was making. This thin material was ever so much easier to manage than the gray flannel, and they had the little garment done in no time, even to the buttons and buttonholes. When it came to making the buttonholes, Cousin Ann sat right down with each one and supervised every stitch. You may not be surprised to know that they were a great improvement over the first batch.

Then, making a great ceremony of it, they began on the store material, working twice a week now, because May was slipping along very fast and Mr. Pond might be there at any time. They knew pretty well how to go ahead on this one, after the experience of their first pair, and Cousin Ann was not much needed except as adviser in hard places. She sat in the room with them doing some sewing of her own, so quiet that half the time they forgot she was there. It was great fun, sewing all together and chattering as they sewed.

A good deal of the time they talked about how splendid it was of them to be so kind to little 'Lias. "My! I don't believe most girls would put themselves out this way for a dirty little boy!" said Stashie, complacently.

"No indeed!" chimed in Betsy. "It 's just like a story, is n't it?-working and sacrificing for the poor!"

"I guess he'll thank us all right for sure!" said Ellen. "He 'll never forget us as long as he lives, I don't suppose."

Betsy, her imagination fired by this suggestion, said, "I guess when he 's grown up he 'll be telling everybody about how, when he was so poor and ragged, Stashie Monahan and Ellen Peters and Elizabeth Ann-"

"And Eliza!" put in that little girl, hastily, very much afraid she would not be given her due share of the glory.

Cousin Ann sewed, and listened, and said nothing.

Toward the end of May two little blouses, two pairs of trousers, two pairs of stockings, two sets of underwear (contributed by the teacher), and the pair of shoes Uncle Henry gave were ready. The little girls handled the pile of new garments with inexpressible pride, and debated just which way of bestowing them

was sufficiently grand to be worthy the occasion. Betsy was for taking them to school and giving them to 'Lias one by one, so that each child could have her thanks separately. But Stashie wanted to take them to the house when 'Lias's stepfather would be there, and shame him by showing that little girls had had to do what he ought to have done.

Cousin Ann broke into the discussion by asking in her quiet, firm voice, "Why do you want 'Lias to know where the clothes come from?"

They had forgotten again that she was there, and turned around quickly to stare at her. Nobody could think of any answer to her very queer question. It had not occurred to any one that there could be such a question,

Cousin Ann shifted her ground and asked another, "Why did you make these clothes, anyhow?"

They stared again, speechless. Why did she ask that? She knew why.

Finally little Molly said, in her honest, baby way: "Why, you know why, Miss Ann! So 'Lias Brewster will look nice and Mr. Pond will maybe adopt him."

"Well," said Cousin Ann, "what has that got to do with 'Lias knowing who did it?"

"Why, he would n't know who to be grateful to!" cried Betsy.

"Oh!" said Cousin Ann. did n't do it to help 'Lias.

"Oh, I see! You You did it to have

him grateful to you. I see. Molly is such a

little girl, it's no wonder she did n't really take in what you girls were up to." She nodded her head wisely as though now she understood.

But if she did, little Molly certainly did not. She had not the least idea what everybody was talking about. She looked rather anxiously from one sober, downcast face to another. What was the matter?

Apparently nothing was really the matter, she decided, for after a minute's silence Miss Ann got up with her usual face of cheerful gravity, and said: "Don't you think you little girls ought to top off this last afternoon with a tea-party? There's a new batch of cookies, and you can make yourselves some lemonade if you want to."

They had these refreshments out on the porch in the sunshine, with their dolls for guests and a great deal of chatter for sauce. Nobody said another word about how to give the clothes to 'Lias till, just as the girls were going away, Betsy said, walking along with the two older ones, "Say, don't you think it'd be fun to go some evening after dark and leave the clothes on 'Lias's door-step, and knock and

run away quick before anybody comes to the door?" She spoke in an uncertain voice, and smoothed Deborah's carved wooden curls.

"Yes, I do!" said Ellen, not looking at Betsy but down at the weeds by the road. "I think it would be lots of fun!"

Little Molly, playing with Annie and Eliza, did not hear this; but she was allowed to go with the older girls on the great expedition.

It was a warm, dark evening in late May, with the frogs piping their sweet, high note, and the first of the fireflies wheeling over the wet meadows near the tumble-down house where 'Lias lived. The girls took turns in carrying the big paper-wrapped bundle, and stole along in the shadow of the trees, full of excitement, looking over their shoulders at nothing, and pressing their hands over their mouths to keep back the giggles. There was, of course, no reason on earth why they should giggle, which is, of course, the very reason why they did. If you 've ever been a little girl you know about that.

One window of the small house was dimly lighted, they found, when they came in sight of it, and they thrilled with excitement and joyful alarm. Suppose 'Lias's dreadful stepfather should come out and yell at them! They came forward on tiptoe, making a great deal of noise by stepping on twigs, rustling bushes, cracking gravel under their feet, and doing all the other things that make such a noise at night and never do in the daytime. But nobody stirred inside the room with the lighted window. They crept forward and peeped cautiously insideand stopped giggling. The dim light coming from a little kerosene lamp with a smoky chimney fell on a dismal, cluttered room, a bare, greasy, wooden table, and two broken-backed chairs, with little 'Lias in one of them. He had fallen asleep with his head on his arms, his pinched, dirty, sad little face showing in the light from the lamp. His feet dangled high above the floor in their broken, muddy shoes. One sleeve was torn to the shoulder. A piece of dry bread was clutched in one bony little hand, and an old tin dipper lay beside him on the bare table. Nobody else was in the room, nor, evidently, in the darkened, empty, fireless house.

As long as she lives Betsy will never forget what she saw through the window that warm May evening. Her eyes grew very hot and her hands very cold. Her heart thumped hard. She reached for little Molly and gave her a great hug in the darkness. Suppose it were little Molly asleep there, all alone in the dirty, dismal house, with no supper and nobody to put her to bed? She