at the cocoanut palms that reeled and swung in
the shimmering heat. He was clad in a thin
undershirt and a strip of cotton cloth that
wrapped about his waist and descended to his
knees. On his head was a battered Stetson,
known to the trade as a Baden-Powell. About
his middle was strapped a belt, which carried a
large-calibered automatic pistol and several
spare clips, loaded and ready for quick work.

The rear was brought up by a black boy of
fourteen or fifteen, who carried medicine bottles,
a pail of hot water, and various other hospital
appurtenances. They passed out of the com-
pound through a small wicker gate, and went on
under the blazing sun, winding about among
new-planted cocoanuts that threw no shade.
There was not a breath of wind, and the super-
heated, stagnant air was heavy with pestilence.
From the direction they were going arose a wild
clamor, as of lost souls wailing and of men in
torment. A long, low shed showed ahead, grass- walled and grass-thatched, and it was from here
that the noise proceeded. There were shrieks
and screams, some unmistakably of grief, others

-2-