The Campaign of the Jungle: or, Under Lawton through Luzon. Stratemeyer Edward
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be sure not.” Larry leaped up from the bench upon which he had been resting and ran to the door. At this Luke smiled glumly and shook his head.
“Ye won’t go it thet way, lad – the guard locked it, I seen him do it, – and the lock is a strong one, too.”
Luke was right, as a brief examination proved. Then the boy turned to the window, an affair less than a foot square, having over it several iron bars set firmly into the stones. “No thoroughfare there,” was his comment.
The two next examined the floor, to find it of brick, and as solid as the walls. “Only the ceilin’ left now,” said Luke. “I reckon we might as well give it up. Even if we do git out, more’n likely a guard outside will shoot us down.”
But Larry was determined to test the ceiling, which was but a couple of feet over their heads. So he had his companion hold him for that purpose.
“There is a loose board up there,” he cried, as he was feeling his way along. “Hold me a little higher, Luke, and perhaps I can shove it up.”
The old sailor did as requested, and with a strong push Larry shifted one end of the plank above, so that it left an opening ten inches wide and several feet long. Catching a good hold he pulled himself to the apartment above, to find it stored with boxes and barrels containing old military uniforms and other army equipments, relics of Spanish rule.
“Any way out up thar?” queried Luke. “If there is, we don’t want to waste any time, ye know.”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” replied Larry, in a low voice, and ran first to one end window of the storeroom and then the other. In front was the street, fast filling with soldiers. In the rear was a stable which just now seemed deserted. The several windows of the storeroom were all barred, but here the bars were screwed fast to wood instead of being set in stone.
“I think there is a chance here,” said the boy, coming back to the opening. “Here, give me your hand, and I’ll help you up,” and he bent down; and soon Luke stood beside him.
“Think we can git out thet way, eh!” said the Yankee tar, surveying the prospect in the rear. “Well, I reckon it’s worth workin’ for, Larry. But the drop from the window, even if we pull away the bars – ”
“Here is a rope – we can use that,” answered the boy, pointing out the article around several small boxes. While Luke pried away the bars of one of the rear windows he possessed himself of the rope, and tied it fast to a bar which was not disturbed. As soon as the opening was sufficiently large to admit of the passage of each one’s body, Luke swung himself over the window-sill.
“Come on,” he cried softly, and slipped from view. Never had he gone down a ship’s rope quicker, and never had Larry followed his friend with such alacrity. Both felt that life or death depended upon the rapidity of their movements.
The ground was hardly touched by Luke when a Filipino boy appeared at the entrance to the stable. For an instant the youth stared in opened-mouthed astonishment, then he uttered a yell that would have done credit to an Indian on the war-path.
“The jig’s up!” cried the Yankee tar. “Come, Larry, our legs have got to save us, if we’re to be saved at all.”
He 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