The Campaign of the Jungle: or, Under Lawton through Luzon. Stratemeyer Edward

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leaped across the yard and for the corner of the stable, where he collided with a Tagal soldier, who was coming forward to learn what the yelling meant. Down went both the sailor and the guard; but the rebel got the worse of it, for he lay half stunned, while Luke was up in a trice. As the soldier fell, his gun flew from his hands, and Larry tarried just long enough to pick the weapon up.

      Behind the stable was a narrow, winding street, lined on either side with huts and other native dwellings, with here and there a barnlike warehouse. Into this street darted our two friends, and there paused, not knowing whether to move toward the wharves or in the opposite direction.

      “Look out!” suddenly yelled Larry, and dropped flat, followed by the Yankee tar. A sharp report rang out, and a bullet whistled over their heads, coming from the prison yard. On the instant Larry fired in return, and the prison guard disappeared as if by magic. Long afterward, Larry learned that he had hit the Tagal in the arm.

      There was now a general alarm throughout the prison, and the two escaped prisoners felt that any other locality would be better for them than the one they now occupied. “Let us try to find our soldiers,” said Luke, and once again they started to run, this time up the road where, far away, they could make out a forest of some sort. Then came a second report, and Luke Striker staggered back, hit in the shoulder.

      “Luke! Luke, you are struck!” gasped Larry. His heart seemed to leap into his throat. What if his dearest friend had been mortally wounded?

      “I – I – reckon it – it ain’t much!” came with a shiver. The sailor straightened himself up and started to run again. “They are after us hot-like, ain’t they?”

      A turn in the road soon took them out of sight of the prison, and they breathed a bit more freely. But the strain was beginning to tell upon Luke, and watching him, Larry saw that he was growing deathly pale.

      “You can’t keep this up, Luke,” he said, and put out his arm to aid his friend. As he did so, the Yankee tar gave a short groan, threw up both hands, and then sank down in a heap at the boy’s feet.

      CHAPTER VII

      THE RETREAT TO THE RICE-HOUSE

      Larry was greatly alarmed, not knowing but that his companion was about to die on his hands. Quickly he knelt at the Yankee’s side, to learn that Luke had fainted away from loss of blood. The shoulder of his shirt and jacket were saturated through and through.

      “What shall I do?” the boy asked himself, and gazed hurriedly at the surroundings. To one side of the road were several nipa huts, to the other a long, rambling warehouse. The doorways of all the buildings stood open, and no one seemed to be in sight.

      As quickly as he could the youth took up his friend and staggered with his heavy burden to the warehouse, which was about half filled with rice. Entering the structure, he passed to a small apartment somewhat in the rear. Here there was a quantity of old sacking in a heap, and upon this rude couch Larry placed the unconscious form.

      The boy had been taught on shipboard just what to do in case of such an emergency, and now he worked as he never had before, for Luke was very dear to him, and the thought that his friend might die was horrible to contemplate. He prayed to Heaven that the old gunner’s life might be spared to him.

      The wound was an ugly one; yet even to Larry’s inexperienced eye it did not look as if it could be fatal, and the boy breathed a long sigh of relief as he bound it up. Then he went in search of water, and finding a well back of the warehouse brought a bucketful in and began to bathe Luke. Soon the sufferer stirred and opened his honest eyes wonderingly.

      “Why – er – how’s this?” he stammered. “Did I – oh, I remember now!” And he sank back again.

      “Keep quiet,” whispered the boy. He had heard voices coming toward the warehouse. “If you make a sound, it may be all up with both of us.”

      The old tar breathed heavily and nodded. Throwing some sacking over the prostrate form, Larry slipped back into the main apartment of the warehouse. He still held the gun, but it was empty and could be used only as a club.

      Two men were approaching the warehouse, both tall, slim, and evidently of Spanish extraction. They were talking loudly and excitedly to one another; but as Larry understood but few words of Spanish, what they were saying was lost upon the boy.

      “I don’t believe they are after us,” thought the lad, when the strangers came to a halt just outside the warehouse. As they did so a long volley of rifle shots came from a distance, followed by another and then another. The shooting came from the centre of the town and made Larry’s heart beat fast. “Our soldiers must be coming in,” he thought. “Oh, I hope they make the town ours!”

      The shots appeared to disturb the two Spaniards greatly, for both clutched each other by the arm and looked thoroughly frightened.

      Presently an old woman came running out of one of the huts. She yelled at the two Spaniards in her own tongue and pointed at the warehouse. Evidently she had seen Larry and Luke, but had been afraid to expose herself.

      The strangers listened to the old woman with interest, then began to talk to each other. “Perhaps we can get some information, José,” said one, in Spanish.

      “Perhaps we shall get a bullet,” answered his companion, grimly. Nevertheless, he consented to enter the building, and both passed through the great doorway of the warehouse.

      Hardly knowing how to receive the newcomers, Larry stepped for a moment behind a bin of rice. But then, as the pair moved toward where Luke lay, he raised his gun threateningly.

      “Halt!” he called, as sternly as he could. “Halt, or I shall fire!”

      “We are betrayed!” roared one of the Spaniards, in his native tongue. “No shoot! no shoot!” he added, in broken English. “We mean you no harm.”

      “Up with your hands, then,” went on Larry, resolved to make the most of the situation, even though the gun was empty; and four hands went promptly into the air, for the two men before him were as cowardly as they were unprincipled.

      There was an awkward silence for several seconds, while boy and men surveyed each other. Larry lowered the gun slightly, but still kept his finger on the trigger. He noted that the newcomers appeared to be unarmed, although they had both knives and pistols hidden upon their persons.

      “You are an Americano sailor, not so?” asked one of the Spaniards.

      “I am,” was Larry’s prompt reply. “Are you one of Aguinaldo’s rebels?”

      “No, no! We are no rebels – we are peaceful Spanish gentlemen,” put in the second Spaniard.

      “Do you belong here?”

      “I belong here,” said the man who had first spoken. “My brother, he belongs at Manila.”

      The brother mentioned shot an angry glance at the speaker. “Yes, I come from Manila,” he said. “But I belong truly in Spain, being a merchant of Madrid.”

      “Well, our war with you folks is over,” said Larry, slowly, hardly knowing how to proceed. “If you are not going to help the rebels, you ought to help us. We are doing all we can for your prisoners out here,” he added, meaning the Spaniards that were being held by the forces under General Aguinaldo – soldiers who were captured during the struggle between Spain and her Philippine colonies.

      “We

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