Mr.Scheerer, who accompanied us, had sent ahead to arrange for lunch at the house of a rich Igorot named Acop, but when we arrived at this man's place, soaked, cold, and hungry, we found it shut up.

He had not received the message and was away from home.

Investigation showed that our only resource in the commissary line were some wads of sticky, unsalted, boiled rice which our Igorot carriers had inside their hats, in contact with their frowsy hair.

We bolted as much of this as the Igorots could spare, killing its rather high flavour with cayenne peppers picked beside the trail, and continued our journey.

In descending a steep hill my horse stumbled and while attempting to recover himself drove a sharp stone into his hoof and turned a complete somersault, throwing me over his head on to the rocks.