LIFE HANGS ON A WORD
"You are talking like a madman," sneered Hal.
"And next you will be begging like one," returned Tomba, with that same
easy but deadly laugh.
Hal, despite his grit, felt a start of terror. Cold sweat was now
gathering on his forehead.
"You refused my friendship some days ago," continued Tomba. "You did not
know how valuable it might be."
"Can the friendship of a scoundrel like you ever be valuable?" asked
Overton.
"In the present case it would be worth a little to you--your life!"
"What did you want of me, when you sought my acquaintance?" demanded
Hal.
He had suddenly become seized with a desire to prolong the talk with
this little brown monster--to gain time!
"There was something that you could have done for me," replied Vicente
Tomba.
The Tagalo, like others of his race, was not averse to talking, either.
The little Filipino knew that he had the whole situation in his hands.
With the cruelty of a cat, Tomba delighted in the feline pastime of
playing with a victim that could not escape him.
"What did you want me to do?" Hal asked almost blandly.
"I wanted your services."
"Yes, but what kind of services?"
"What is the use of telling you--_now_?"
"Tell me one thing, though, Tomba."
"Why?"
"Just to gratify my curiosity," explained Sergeant Hal, and he spoke
slowly while his eyes watched those of the Filipino. "Did you want me to
betray my Flag?"
"Not the Flag itself."
"But, in some way, you wanted me to turn against my comrades--to serve
you and your friends at the expense of the United States Government."
"Yes," assented Tomba. "But do not think to deceive me. It is too late
now to save yourself by promising what I would have wanted of you."
"I don't intend to serve you and your rascal friends at any price--at
least, I haven't yet come to that decision," Hal added, in a more
conciliatory tone. "However, I am curious."
"Curiosity can do you no good now," retorted Tomba softly, with a shrug
of his shoulders.
"What part is Draney playing with you brown-skinned men?"
Tomba again shrugged his shoulders, this time more mockingly.
"Senor Draney serves the same cause that I do," laughed the Filipino.
"And what cause is that?"
"His purse."
"Then, in other words, Tomba, you are not even a Filipino patriot. You
are merely a twentieth-century type of pirate."
"If you like the word," replied Tomba, in a tone of indifference.
Then he yawned--next placed the creese on the ground beside him, while
his right hand explored his pockets. He soon brought to light a package
of Manila cigarettes. Tomba's left hand produced a box of matches.
"Do you care for one last smoke, Senor Sergente?" inquired the Filipino
with mocking politeness, as he held out the package.
"Thank you; I never picked up the vice," Sergeant Hal answered, but he
said it good-naturedly, for he had an object now in not provoking the
enemy.
"So? You call smoking a vice?"
"The vice of pigs," declared Hal, but again he laughed good-humoredly.
"Oh, I do not mind your insolence," replied Tomba, striking a match and
holding it to the end of the cigarette in his mouth. "Abuse me all you
please, Senor Sergente."
"Thank you!"
Hal had had a desperate motive in gaining time by prolonging the talk.
As he lay on his side before the Filipino the young soldier had at last
employed his fingers in a way that he hoped would lead to his being able
to free his hands. And now the instant had come! His hands were free!
As he uttered that "thank you," Sergeant Overton suddenly summoned all
the muscles in his body to obey him in one frantic effort for safety and
freedom.
Like a flash he rolled, both of his bound feet kicking Vicente Tomba
and bowling over that astounded little brown man.
Like lightning the Army boy reached for the creese, and the finish of
that general movement found Sergeant Hal Overton sitting up and aiming a
desperate slash at the cord about his ankles.
It needed a second slash, and in that fleeting interval Vicente Tomba,
uttering a wild cry of rage, hurled himself upon the Army boy.
Hal Overton had now, however, entire control of his body. He engaged
with the little brown man in a desperate struggle. Over and over they
rolled, the Army boy controlling the battle and carrying them both
further from the creese that he had dropped on the ground.
Then, all in an instant, Hal freed his right hand, clenched his fist and
struck Tomba a staggering blow between the eyes.
When Tomba came to himself again, after a few moments, he found the
youth in Uncle Sam's Army uniform leaning over him.
"I have the creese, Tomba," warned Overton. "You can guess what a sound
or a move that is not permitted will mean to you!"
To do his courage full justice, Tomba showed himself no coward.
"You have the upper hand, Senor Sergente. But it will do you no good."
"No?" questioned Uncle Sam's young soldier. "Why not?"
"There is but one way out of here."
"And then?"
"To pass out that way you must go by a dozen of my men, and you can
judge for yourself what that will mean."
"Yes; I have an idea," nodded Hal thoughtfully.
"Then you see the folly of thinking you can escape?"
"No; I am thinking that your men will be able to get me."
"To be sure."
"Yet I am quick, Tomba, and before they can finish me, I shall have
settled my score with you for good and all."
"And thrown away your own life?"
"You forget that I am a soldier, Tomba. I am inclined to feel that it
will be worth even my own life to make sure that you are where you can
no longer plot against the American Government."
"But your own life, Senor Sergente?"
"My own life is less than worthless to me if I may be permitted to lose
it in doing one last valuable act for the Flag of my country."
"You are boasting now!"
"As to that, Tomba, you will soon be in a position to know. And I warn
you that the slightest sign of treachery on your part will be my excuse
for ridding these islands of the disgrace of your presence."
"You are attempting too much," jeered the little brown man. "I see and I
admit that you are brave, yet you are bound to lose."
"The time for talking is past, Tomba, and now we come to action,"
returned the Army boy, speaking slowly and easily. "Come, get upon your
feet and obey every order of mine the instant that you receive it. In
another minute or two you and I will be in the sunlight again--or else
you and I have both already had our last glimpse of the light of day."
Tomba smiled, though he felt the mastery of this young wearer of Uncle
Sam's uniform.
"Get up on your feet," ordered Hal. "Stand right before me, your back to
me. Do you feel the point of the creese?"
"Yes," answered Tomba in a low voice, though the brown man spoke
steadily.
"You will walk before me, very slowly. If you attempt to turn, or to
disobey, I shall know what to do with this wavy-bladed creese. If you
make a move to spring away from me, I shall show you how good a jumper I
am--and then the creese! Now, walk, very slowly, toward the exit from
this place."
[Illustration: "Steady, Now, Tomba!"]
As they started Hal held the lantern with his left hand so that the rays
of light flashed ahead of them.
Vicente Tomba walked to the far end of this underground room. As far as
young Overton's eyes could see they were moving toward a blank wall.
"Halt!" commanded the young sergeant easily.
Tomba obeyed.
"You are taking me to a secret door?"
"It is so, senor."
"And you know how to open it?"
"Yes; it is simple."
"Then step to the door. But, Tomba!"
"Si, senor."
"Do not let any wild plan run through your mind that you will open the
door suddenly, bolt through it and close it in my face. Do you still
feel the creese? Well, I am on the alert!"
In truth that had been Vicente Tomba's very plan. Now he gave up the
idea, for Sergeant Hal's tone and manner made it very plain that
treachery would prove but another name for suicide.
"Then look out, Senor Sergente, that when I open the door there is no
rush on the part of my brave ones."
"Whether you or they plan the rush, it will be the end of the world for
you, Tomba," Overton warned him steadily.
"I will do my best, senor," replied Tomba in a voice well nigh as steady
as the Army boy's.
Then he bent forward, pressing until he found a hidden spring. In the
seemingly solid stone wall a large block of stone swung around on a
pivot, disclosing a larger cellar room beyond.
"Steady, now, Tomba!"
Sergeant Overton flashed the lantern's rays over the Filipino's left
shoulder.
Nor was it a reassuring sight that the light of the lantern revealed to
the young soldier.
Instead of a dozen brown-skinned men in the next room, there were eight,
if Hal's hurried count was correct. Moreover, he believed them to be the
same eight who had first received and bound him.
The most disquieting fact, however, was that five of the men wore
revolvers at their belts, and a pistol usually has a knife at a
disadvantage.
"Explain to them, Tomba," muttered the young soldier in English, "that
any move of your own, or any move of theirs to help you, will be
expensive for you. Warn them, for I am watching all the rascals at once
and I shall not endure an instant's treachery or disobedience of my
orders."
Tomba spoke to them rapidly, partly in the Tagalo and partly in the Moro
dialect. Sergeant Hal listened, watched, waited in keen anxiety, for
life and death hung on the issue.