or else directly led out, is surrounded by a mob of men and boys, each with his bolo.  At a signal given, the crowd rushes on the animal, and each man hacks and cuts at the part nearest to him, the rule of the game being that any part cut off must be carried out of the rush and deposited on the ground before it can become the bearer’s property.  Accordingly, no sooner is a piece separated and brought out than it is pounced on by others who try to take it away; usually a division takes place, subject to further sub-division, however, if other claimants are at hand.  The competition is not only tremendous, but dangerous, for in their excitement the contestants frequently wound one another.  The Government (i.e., Mr. Worcester), while at first necessarily allowing this sort of butchering, has steadily discouraged and gradually reduced it, so that at Kiangan, for example, the people were told that this was the last time they would ever be allowed to kill beef in this fashion.  It was pointed out to them that the purpose being to furnish meat, their method of killing was so uneconomical that the beef was really ruined, and nobody got what he was really entitled to.

On this occasion, the carabao was tied to a stake in a small swale and I nerved myself to look on.  I saw the first cuts, the poor beast look up from his grass in astonishment, totter, reel, and fall as blows rained on him from all sides.  The crowd, closing in, mercifully hid the rest from view; the victim dying game without a sound.  In this respect, as well as in many others, the carabao is a very different animal from the pig.  But, while looking on at the mound of cutting, hacking, sweating, and struggling butchers, the smell of fresh blood over all, something occurred that completely shifted the center of interest.  A boy came up to us in great excitement to say that the prisoner had got hold of a bayonet and was running amok.  This was the prisoner of the morning who had been so badly beaten; to make him more comfortable, he had been laid on the veranda of the cuartel (just behind us), hobbled, but otherwise free.  The boy spoke the truth; the prisoner had snatched his bayonet from a passing Constabulary private, and, turning into the cuartel, made for the provincial treasurer, who was busy inside.  Him he chased out, getting over the ground with extraordinary rapidity, considering his wounds and hobbles; when we turned to look, the prisoner had come out and was running for just anybody.  There was now but one thing to do, and done it was.  Some one in authority called out to the sentry on duty before the cuartel.  “Kill him!” The sentry, who up to this time had been walking up and down as a sentry should, brought down his carbine, aimed at the running man, and dropped him in his tracks by a bullet through the heart.  He then ejected his empty cartridge-case, shouldered his piece, and continued to walk his post as unconcernedly as though he had shot a mad dog; as