the enthusiasm of two hundred pounds a-thrill with long-suppressed rage.
The Maestro's eyes followed the officer, marching at the side of his company. His mouth opened in a broad grin that displayed a startling vacuum where once had been two good teeth, now lying peacefully on the sod of the old Berkeley gridiron.
"Guess it's school-time," he said.
He sprinted fifty yards, leaped an eighteen-foot ditch, hurdled a little goat, bucked a carabao around till its tail was where its head had been, and bounded into the schoolroom.
Two hundred brown niños sprang to their feet.
"Guda morrneen," they howled, in unison.
"Good-morning," answered the Maestro, briskly. "Come, let's get at this. No shirking, quick! Arm exercise! One, two; one, two."
He led them through a furious set of exercises in which he himself took part enthusiastically, the perspiration cascading down his nose.
"You poor, scrawny weaklings," he said, at last, beaming upon the breathless little assemblage. "Never you mind; I'll make men of you."
Then he started to go. "Give them reading," he shouted to his native assistant from the door, "and breathing exercises every half hour."
But he came back, on an after-thought, and placed
