at,
just a wiry wisp of a man with a great beaky nose and a guttural German
accent. He had a bad limp, and the story at the barracks went that once
when the Moros rose in revolt and went up into the hills, Charlie
Schuck, in his capacity of guide to the United States troops, led them
into an ambush. Whether that was so or not no one ever knew, but the
boys who suspected him shot from the hip, and Charlie limped ever
after. The fourth lad—Willie—was, and maybe still is, a thundering ass.
There was yet a fifth son by a native mother. My friend Julius had all
the faults of the Moro and none of the virtues of the white man. I
often warned him throughout the years that he would come to a bad end,
and so he did, for later on they condemned him to sit in the
Phillippine Senate. He richly deserved his fate.
