Half an hour before daylight was due everyone in the camp was stirring.

The two new cooks for the day had their work cut out for them.  Other soldiers busied themselves with hauling wood and water.

Then, too, the four horses belonging to the transport wagons had to be curried, watered and fed.

By the time these first duties were out of the way broad daylight had come and breakfast was ready.

The meal over “police,” or cleaning up, was performed as carefully as in barracks.

The hunters were now ready to set out, for, in the meantime, the antelope and bears killed the afternoon before had been skinned and the meat hung up in the dry, cool air.

“Anybody in this outfit been wearing moccasins?” queried Corporal Hyman, strolling back into camp.

No one admitted it.

“Then we’ve been having visitors in the night,” continued Hyman.  “No less than four of them, either, for the prints are right under that tree over there, and they lead down to the trail.”

“Moccasins?  Indians, then?” thrilled Private William Green, who was one of the hunting party.

“Sorry to spoil your dream of glory in an Indian fight, Green,” laughed the lieutenant, “but the last Indian in these parts died years ago.”

“But what can the moccasins mean?” pondered Sergeant Hal aloud.  “If there have been visitors about, and honest ones, they would naturally let themselves be announced.  Dietz, you had the last trick of watch?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Did you see or hear any prowlers?”

“Nary one, Sergeant.”

“Corporal Hyman, take me over to the moccasin prints.  Lieutenant, do you mind taking a look at them, too, sir?”

Mr. Prescott stepped over in the wake of Hyman and Overton.

“There are the prints,” declared the corporal, pointing.  “On account of the hard ground they’re not very distinct, but there were four of the fellows.”

“More likely five,” supplemented Lieutenant Prescott, pointing to still another set of footmarks.

“Here are other prints over here,” called Sergeant Overton.  “Aren’t these still a different set?”

“Yes,” agreed both the lieutenant and Corporal Hyman.

“Then there were at least six men prowling about here while we slept in the night,” concluded Hal.

“And here is one of the trails,” called the lieutenant, “leading toward camp.”

“Suppose we follow the trail?” suggested the young sergeant.

They did so, halting at the end of the trail.

“From here I can see where the stool of the guard rested near the fire,” continued Overton.  “From that it would seem fair to conclude that one of the prowlers got this far, found our guard awake, and then retired.”

“It would be interesting to know who our visitors were,” nodded Lieutenant Prescott.

“I’ve changed my mind about going hunting to-day,” went on Sergeant Hal.  “While the rest of you are out after game I am going to remain right here.”

“The camp is guarded by two reliable men,” remarked Mr. Prescott.

“True enough, sir, but they’re not real guards, for both will have their hands full with camp housework,” objected the boyish sergeant.  “They can’t do real guard duty, or else we’d all have to turn to get the evening meal in a rush.  So I’ve decided to remain behind to-day.”

“And, on the whole, I think you’re wise to do it, Sergeant,” approved the lieutenant.

So, while the main party hied itself away soon after, Hal Overton remained behind with the two camp duty men.

Having a couple of good books in his tent, Sergeant Hal donned his olive tan Army overcoat, spread a poncho and a pair of blankets on the ground and lay down to read.

But his rifle and ammunition belt rested beside him.

The morning passed without any event, other than two or three times Sergeant Overton paused long enough in his reading to do some brief scouting past the camp.

Nothing came of it, however.  At noon Hal ate with Dietz and Johnson.

“The chuck is better back in camp,” laughed the young sergeant.  “But I’ve heard a gun half a dozen times this morning, and each time I’ve been curious to know how the hunting luck is running.”

“Nobody will beat the haul you made yesterday, Sarge,” offered Private Dietz.

“Oh, I’d like to see several of the fellows beat it,” rejoined Overton.  “I certainly hope to see both wagons go back loaded to the top with game.  I don’t want to have the only military command I ever enjoyed being the head of go back stumped.”

“We’re not stumped, with five bear carcasses,” hinted Private Johnson.

“Those carcasses might afford two meat meals to the garrison,” speculated Sergeant Overton.  “But what we want to do is to take back so much game flesh that no man in Fort Clowdry will want to hear game meat mentioned again before next spring.”

“Huh!  By that time the old Thirty-fourth will probably be in the Philippines,” retorted Dietz, forking eight ounces more of wood-broiled bear steak to his tin plate.

“I wonder!” cried Hal, his eyes blazing with eagerness.

“Crazy to get out to the islands, Sarge?”

“Humph!  I put in three years there with the Thirty-fourth,” grunted Dietz.  “I’ll never kick at a transfer to another regiment whenever the regiment I’m in gets the islands route.”

“What have you against the Philippines?” Hal wanted to know.

“Well, Sarge, don’t you enjoy this cool, crisp, bracing air up here in the hills?”

“Certainly.  Who wouldn’t?  This air is bracing-life-giving.”

“Nothing like it in the Philippines,” answered Dietz.  “It’s hot there-hot, you understand.”

“Yet I’ve been told that a soldier always needs his blankets there at night,” objected Hal.

“Yes; if you have to sleep outdoors, then you need your full uniform on, including shoes and leggings, and you wrap yourself up tight in your blanket.  But that isn’t to keep warm; it’s to keep the mosquitoes from eating you alive.  So, after you get done up in your blanket, you put a collapsible mosquito net over your head to protect your face and neck.  Then there’s a trick you have to learn of wrapping your hands in under your blanket in such a way that the skeeters can’t follow inside.  After you’ve been in the islands a few weeks you learn how to do yourself up so that the skeeters can’t get at your flesh.”

“Then that ought to be all right,” smiled Hal hopefully.

“Yes; but you never heard a Filipino skeeter holler when he’s mad.  When they find they can’t get at you then about four thousand settle on your net and blanket and sing all night.  You’ve got to be fagged out before you can sleep over the racket those little pests make.”

“I guess the whole trick can be learned,” predicted Overton.

“The night trick can be learned after a while,” agreed Dietz.  “But, in the daytime, there’s nothing that can be done to protect you.  You simply have to suffer.  Then the hot days!  Why, Sarge, I’ve marched north up the tracks of the Manila & Dagupan railroad, carrying fifty pounds of weight, on days when the sun sure beat down on us at the rate of a hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Yet you’re alive, now,” observed Overton.

“Oh, yes; just as it happens.”

“But surely there’s some marching in the shade, too?”

“Oh, yes; sometimes you spend the whole day, everyday for a fortnight, hiking through the dense jungles after a gang of bolomen or Moros or ladrones.  Shade enough there in the jungle, but it has a Turkish bath beaten to a plum finish.  You drip, drip, drip with perspiration, until you’d give a week’s pay to be out in the sun for ten minutes with a chance to get dried off.”

“I’m going to like it, just the same,” retorted Hal.  “I know I am.  And, if the natives put up any real trouble for us, then we’ll see some actual service.  That’s what a very young soldier always aches for, you know, Dietz.”

“Yes, and it’s sure fun fighting those brown-skinned little Filipino goo-goos,” grunted the older soldier.  “First they fire on you, and then you and your comrades lie down and fire back.  After you’ve had a few men hit the order comes to charge.  Then you all rise and rush forward, cheering like the Fourth of July.  You have to go through some tall grass on the way, and, first thing you know, a parcel of hidden bolo men jump up right in front of you.  They use their bolos-heavy knives-to slit you open at the belt line.  Ugh!  I’d sooner fight five men with guns than step on one of those bolo men in the jungle!”

“Just the same,” voiced the young sergeant, “the sooner the Thirty-fourth is ordered to the island the better I’ll like it.  I’m wild to see some of the high foreign spots.”

“Wish I could give you all the chances that are coming to me in my service in the Army,” grunted Private Dietz, as he rose from the table.

The afternoon was one of harder work for the two camp duty men.  Hal tried to read again, but found his thoughts too frequently wandering to the Philippines.

The afternoon waxed late, at last, though still there was no sign of the hunters.  Once in a while a gun had been heard at some distance, and that was all.

All the time Sergeant Hal had trailed his rifle about camp with him.  Now, tiring of reading, he went to his tent, standing his rifle against the front tent pole.

Hearing a swift step the young sergeant reached the tent flap in time to see a roughly-dressed, moccasined white man running away with Hal’s Army rifle.

Then, in the same instant, he heard a voice call: 

“Throw your hands up there, man!”

“Holding me up with my own gun, are you?” raged Private Dietz.

“Yes; and we’ve got the other chap’s lead-piece, too.  Up with your hands, both of you.”

Hal dropped back behind the flap of his tent, peering out through a little crack in the canvas.

There were now seven men outside, all strangers, all rough-looking and all moccasined.

Between them they had the three rifles belonging in camp that day.

“Bring out that other fellow, the kid sergeant,” commanded the same voice, after Dietz and Johnson, hopelessly surprised, had hoisted their hands skyward.

“Humph!” growled Sergeant Hal, his eyes snapping.  “I don’t like the idea of surrendering the camp that I command!”