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Updated: May 10, 2025
He wasn't exactly caked with mud; rather, he seemed to ooze it out of every pore. He had been assigned to Binalbagan, ten miles further down. I stared when he told me this. Binalbagan was the worst post on the island, a musty, pestilential hole with a sullenly hostile population, and he well, inefficiency was branded all over him in six-foot letters.
A picture came to me that of Miller on his bamboo platform before his door, gazing mournfully after me, his chin thrown forward. It did not leave me the day long, and at sundown I saddled up and trotted off toward Binalbagan. "I didn't reach the pueblo that night, however.
One morning he said to me: 'The maestro Miller, he does not eat. "'No? I answered, absent-mindedly. "'No, he never eats, he reiterated authoritatively, although that peculiar Visayan inflection of which I have spoken gave him the air of asking a question. "'Oh, I suppose he does, I said, carelessly. "'He does not eat, he repeated. 'Every one in Binalbagan say so.
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