In order to keep the Sabbath holy in the Philippines the people generally go to the cock fight, just as in Spain they go to the bull fight. Cock fighting, a passion introduced into the country and exploited for a century, is one of the vices of the people, more deeply rooted than the opium vice among the Chinese. The poor go there to risk what little they have, desirous of making money without working; the rich go there to amuse themselves, using the money which they have left over from their feasts and thanksgiving masses. The cock is educated with great care, with more care, perhaps, than the son who is to succeed his father in the cock-pit. The Government permits it and almost recommends it, for it decrees that the fight shall only be held in the public plazas and on holidays from after high mass till dark—eight hours.  
The San Diego cock-pit does not differ from others which are found in all the towns. It consists of three parts: The first, or entrance, is a large rectangle, some twenty meters in length and fourteen in breadth. On one side is the door, generally guarded by a woman who collects the entrance fee. From the contribution which each one makes the Government receives a part, some hundred thousands of pesos each year. They say that with this money, which gives license to the vice, magnificent schools are raised, bridges and roadways constructed, and rewards offered for the encouragement of agriculture and commerce. Blessed be the vice which produces such good results! In this first precinct are the vendors of betel nut, cigars and tobacco, delicacies and refreshments. There the small boys, who accompany their fathers or uncles, are carefully initiated into the secrets of life.
 
This precinct communicates with another of slightly [173]larger dimensions, a sort of vestibule, where the people gather before the fight. There, one sees most of the cocks, tied by a cord to a bone driven into the ground like a nail; there, are the bettors, the lovers of the sport, the man skilled in fastening the gaffs or spurs to the cock’s legs; there, bargains are made, the situation discussed, money borrowed, and people curse, swear and laugh boisterously. In one place, some one is caressing his game cock, passing his hand over his brilliant plumage; in another, a man examines and counts the number of scales on the rooster’s legs, for that, they say, is a sign of valor. The battles of the heroes are related. There, too, you will see many a disappointed owner, with a sour face carrying out by the legs, a dead rooster, stripped of its plumage—the animal which was a favorite for months, petted, cared for day and night, and on which flattering hopes had been founded: now, nothing more than a dead fowl, to be sold for a peseta, stewed in ginger and eaten that very night. Sic transit gloria mundi! The loser returns to his fire-side, where an anxious wife and ragged children await him, without his little capital, without his rooster. From all that gilded dream, from all the care of months, from daybreak to sunset, from all those labors and fatigue, from all that, results a peseta, the ashes left from so much smoke.
 
In this foyer, or vestibule, the most ignorant discuss the coming contests; the most trifling, examine conscientiously the bird, weigh it, contemplate it, extend its wings, feel of its muscles. Some of the people are very well dressed, and are followed and surrounded by the backers of their game cocks. Others, dirty, with the seal of vice imprinted on their squalid faces, anxiously follow the movements of the rich and watch their betting, for the pocketbook can be emptied and the passion still be unsatisfied. There you see no face that is not animated, no indolent Filipino; none apathetic, none silent. All is movement, passion, eagerness.
 
From this place, one passes into the arena or rueda, as it is called. The floor, inclosed by bamboos, is generally elevated higher than the floor of the other two parts of the cock-pit. Running up from the floor and almost touching [174]the roof, are rows of seats for the spectators or gamblers—they come to be the same. During the combat these seats are filled with men and children who cry, shout, perspire, quarrel, and blaspheme. Fortunately, scarcely any women visit the cock-pit. In the rueda are the prominent men, the rich class, the bettors, the bookmaker, and the referee. The cocks fight on the ground, which is beaten down perfectly smooth, and there Destiny distributes to families laughter or tears, feasts or hunger.
 
As we enter, we can see the gobernadorcillo, Captain Pablo, Captain Basilio, and Lucas, the man with the scar on his face who was so disconsolate over the death of his brother.
 
Captain Basilio approaches one of those present and asks him:
 
“Do you know what cock Captain Tiago is going to bring?”
 
“I do not know, Se?or. This morning two arrived, one of them the lásak (black sprinkled with white) which whipped the Consul’s talisain (red, sprinkled with black).”
 
“Do you think that my bulik (black, red and white), can beat him?”
 
“Yes, I surely do. I’ll stake my house and shirt on him!”
 
At that moment Captain Tiago arrived. He was dressed, like the big gamblers, in a camisa of Canton linen, woolen pantaloons, and a panama-straw hat. Behind him came two servants, carrying the lásak and a white cock of colossal proportions.
 
“Sinang tells me that Maria Clara is improving steadily,” said Captain Basilio.
 
“She no longer has any fever, but she is still weak.”
 
“Did you lose last night?”
 
“A little. I heard that you won.... I am going to see if I can win back my money.”
 
“Do you want to fight your lásak?” asked Captain Basilio, looking at the rooster.
 
“That depends on whether there is any money up.”
 
“How much will you stake?”
 
“I don’t play less than two thousand.” [175]
 
“Have you seen my bulik?” asked Captain Basilio, and then called a man to bring a small rooster.
 
Captain Tiago examined it, and after weighing it in his hand, and examining its scales, he handed it back.
 
“What do you put up?” he asked.
 
“Whatever you say.”
 
“Two thousand five hundred?”
 
“Make it three?”
 
“Three.”
 
“Let her go!”
 
The circle of curious people and gamblers learn that the two celebrated cocks are to be fought. Both the roosters have made a history for themselves; both have a reputation. All want to see and examine the two celebrities. Opinions are expressed, and prophecies made.
 
In the meantime the voices grow louder, the confusion is augmented, the rueda fills up and a rush is made for the seats. The soltadores bring two cocks to the ring for a preliminary contest. One of the roosters is blanco (white), the other rojo (red). They are already spurred, but the gaffs are not yet unsheathed. Cries of “Al blanco! al blanco!” are heard. Some one else shouts, “Al rojo!” The blanco is the favorite.
 
Civil Guards circulate among the crowd. They are not wearing the uniform of their body, nor do they wear the costume of the native. Pantaloons of guingon with a red fringe, a blue-spotted blouse shirt, and the cuartel cap—you have here their disguise, in harmony with their deportment; watching and betting, making disturbance and talking of maintaining the peace.
 
While the shouting is going on and men are jingling money in their hands; while the people are going down in their pockets for the last cuarto, or, if that is wanting, pledging their word, promising to sell their carabao, or their next harvest, two young men, apparently brothers, follow the gamblers with envious eyes. They approach, timidly murmur words which nobody catches, and each time become more and more melancholy, and look at each other with disgust and indignation. Lucas observes them, smiles malignantly, rattles some silver pesos, passes near to the two brothers, and looks toward the rueda, shouting: [176]
 
“I am betting fifty, fifty against twenty on the white!”
 
The two brothers exchanged looks.
 
“I told you,” murmured the older, “not to bet all your money. If you had obeyed me, we would have it now to put on the red.”
 
The younger one approached Lucas timidly and touched him on the arm.
 
“Is it you?” exclaimed the latter turning around and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition or did you come to bet?”
 
“How can we bet when we have lost all?”
 
“Then you accept?”
 
“He does not want to! If you could lend us something: you have already said that you knew us....”
 
Lucas scratched his head, pulled down his camisa and replied:
 
“Yes, I know you. You are Tarsilo and Bruno, both young and strong. I know that your brave father died from the result of the hundred lashes which the soldiers gave him. I know that you do not think of avenging him.”
 
“You need not meddle in our history,” interrupted Tarsilo, the older. “That is a disgrace. If we did not have a sister, we would have been hanged long ago.”
 
“Hanged? They only hang cowards, or some one who has no money or protection. Certainly the mountains are near.”
 
“A hundred against twenty on the blanco,” cried one as he passed the group.
 
“Loan us four pesos ... three ... two,” begged the younger brother. “Presently I will return it to you doubled. The fight is going to begin.”
 
Lucas scratched his head again.
 
“Tst! This money is not mine. Don Crisostomo has given it to me for those who want to serve him. But I see that you are not like your father. He was really courageous.”
 
And, saying this, he went away from them, although not far.
 
“Let us accept. What does it matter?” said Bruno to his brother. “It amounts to the same thing whether you [177]are hang............