fter Spain's evacuation, and before the arrival of
American troops in the southern islands, several insurgent leaders
proposed to resist the landing of Americans in Zamboanga. Datto
Mandi and the Philippine presidente of the town, knowing that the
American government was unlike that of Spain, and realizing what an
overwhelming defeat such a project would ultimately receive, although
the first enterprise might meet with success, did all in their power
to quell these martial aspirations.

Failing in this, war was declared, and the presidente, surrounded by
a loyal few, and Datto Mandi with his numerous Moro followers, drove
the insurgents from town. Meanwhile the wives and children of these
belligerents would have starved had it not been for the datto, who,
notwithstanding the difference in their faith, looked after them all,
until the discomfited warriors returned to more peaceful pursuits.

On the first anniversary of the Americans' arrival in Zamboanga,
a great _fiesta_ was held. It began, as all feast-days should begin,
with high mass in the cathedral, after which the Mohammedans joined
their Christian friends in games and cock-fights. Verily, Datto
Mandi and the presidente had been right, Americans were unlike the
Spaniards, and Zamboanga had never experienced so peaceful a year in
all her history. Small wonder the _fiesta_ was a success, and that the
"_Viva America's_" were uttered from full hearts. But it is primarily
to Datto Mandi and the presidente that the people of Zamboanga should
be grateful. Citizens of the world these men are, and statesmen, too,
although their sphere is comparatively circumscribed.

The presidente was ill while we were in Zamboanga, his condition
being so critical that none of us saw him, but one day while we were
driving around the outskirts of the town, our coachman drew up his
horses with a great flourish before a pretty vine-embowered house.

"Why are you stopping here?" I demanded, a trifle sharply, for
heads had appeared at various windows and the situation was becoming
embarrassing. The coachman turned with a dignified gesture, if one
can look dignified in a shirt thin as mosquito-netting.

"It is the house of the presidente," he said, in an injured
tone. "Every American who comes to Zamboanga wishes to be driven
here. He is a very great man, the presidente."

I agreed with him heartily, if somewhat hastily, and then prevailed
upon him to drive on, which he did with melanchol