To keep holy the afternoon of Sunday in Spain, one goes ordinarily to the plaza de toros; in the Philippines, to the gallera. Cock-fights, introduced in the country about a century ago, are to-day one of the vices of the people. The Chinese can more easily deprive themselves of opium than the Filipinos of this bloody sport.

The poor, wishing to get money without work, risks here the little he has; the rich seeks a distraction at the price of whatever loose coin feasts and masses leave him. The education of their cocks costs both much pains, often more than that of their sons.

Since the Government permits and almost recommends it, let us take our part in the sport, sure of meeting friends.

The gallera of San Diego, like most others, is divided into three courts. In the entry is taken the sa pintÛ, that is, the price of admission. Of this price the Government has a share, and its revenues from this source are some hundred thousand pesos a year. It is said this license fee of vice serves to build schools, open roads, span rivers, and establish prizes for the encouragement of industry. Blessed be vice when it produces so happy results! In this entry are found girls selling buyo, cigars, and cakes. Here gather numerous children, brought by their fathers or uncles, whose duty it is to initiate them into the ways of life.

In the second court are most of the cocks. Here the contracts are made, amid recriminations, oaths, and peals of laughter. One caresses his cock, while another counts the scales on the feet of his, and extends the wings. See this fellow, rage in his face and heart, carrying by the legs his cock, deplumed and dead. The animal which for months has been tended night and day, on which such brilliant hopes were built, will bring a peseta and make a stew. Sic transit gloria mundi! The ruined man goes home to his anxious wife and ragged children. He has lost at once his cock and the price of his industry. Here the least intelligent discuss the sport; those least given to thought extend the wings of cocks, feel their muscles, weigh, and ponder. Some are dressed in elegance, followed and surrounded by the partisans of their cocks; others, ragged and dirty, the stigma of vice on their blighted faces, follow anxiously the movements of the rich; the purse may get empty, the passion remains. Here not a face that is not animated; in this the Filipino is not indolent, nor apathetic, nor silent; all is movement, passion. One would say they were all devoured by a thirst always more and more excited by muddy water.

From this court one passes to the pit, a circle with seats terraced to the roof, filled during the combats with a mass of men and children; scarcely ever does a woman risk herself so far. Here it is that destiny distributes smiles and tears, hunger and joyous feasts.

Entering, we recognize at once the gobernadorcillo, Captain Basilio, and JosÉ, the man with the scar, so cast down by the death of his brother. And here comes Captain Tiago, dressed like the sporting man, in a canton flannel shirt, woollen trousers, and a jipijapa hat. He is followed by two servants with his cocks. A combat is soon arranged between one of these and a famous cock of Captain Basilio’s. The news spreads, and a crowd gathers round, examining, considering, forecasting, betting.

While men were searching their pockets for their last cuarto, or in lieu of it were engaging their word, promising to sell the carabao, the next crop, and so forth, two young fellows, brothers apparently, looked on with envious eyes. JosÉ watched them by stealth, smiling evilly. Then making the pesos sound in his pocket, he passed the brothers, looking the other way and crying:

“I pay fifty; fifty against twenty for the lÁsak!”

The brothers looked at each other discontentedly.

“I told you not to risk all the money,” said the elder. “If you had listened to me——”

The younger approached JosÉ and timidly touched his arm.

“What! It’s you?” he cried, turning and feigning surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition?”

“He won’t do it. But if you would lend us something, as you say you know us——”

JosÉ shook his head, shifted his position, and replied:

“Yes, I know you; you are TÁrsilo and Bruno; and I know that your valiant father died from the club strokes of these soldiers. I know you don’t think of vengeance——”

“Don’t concern yourself with our history,” said the elder brother, joining them; “that brings misfortune. If we hadn’t a sister, we should have been hanged long ago!”

“Hanged! Only cowards are hanged. Besides, the mountain isn’t so far.”

“A hundred against fifty for the bÛlik!” cried some one passing.

“Loan us four pesos—three—two,” begged Bruno. JosÉ again shook his head.

“Sh! the money isn’t mine. Don CrisÓstomo gave it to me for those who are willing to serve him. But I see you are not like your father; he was courageous. The man who is not must not expect to divert himself.” And he moved away.

“See!” said Bruno, “he’s talking with Pedro; he’s giving him a lot of money!” And in truth JosÉ was counting silver pieces into the palm of Sisa’s husband.

TÁrsilo was moody and thoughtful; with his shirt sleeve he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Brother,” said Bruno, “I’m going, if you don’t; our father must be avenged!”

“Wait,” said TÁrsilo, gazing into his eyes—they were both pale—“I’m going with you. You are right: our father must be avenged!” But he did not move, and again wiped his brow.

“What are you waiting for?” demanded Bruno impatiently.

“Don’t you think—our poor sister——”

“Bah! Isn’t Don CrisÓstomo the chief, and haven’t we seen him with the governor-general? What risk do we run?”

“And if we die?”

“Did not our poor father die under their clubs?”

“You are right!”

The brothers set out to find JosÉ, but hesitation again possessed TÁrsilo.

“No; come away! we’re going to ruin ourselves!” he cried.

“Go on if you want to. I shall accept!”

“Bruno!”

Unhappily a man came up and asked:

“Are you betting? I’m for the lÁsak.”

“How much?” demanded Bruno.

The man counted his pieces.

“I have two hundred; fifty against forty!”

“No!” said Bruno resolutely.

“Good! Fifty against thirty!”

“Double it if you will.”

“A hundred against sixty, then!”

“Agreed! Wait while I go for the money,” and turning to his brother he said:

“Go away if you want to; I shall stay!”

TÁrsilo reflected. He loved Bruno, and he loved sport.

“I am with you,” he said. They found JosÉ.

“Uncle,” said TÁrsilo, “how much will you give?” “I’ve told you already; if you will promise to find others to help surprise the quarters, I’ll give you thirty pesos each, and ten to each companion. If all goes well, they will each receive a hundred, and you double. Don CrisÓstomo is rich!”

“Agreed!” cried Bruno; “give us the money!”

“I knew you were like your father! Come this way, so that those who killed him cannot hear us,” said JosÉ. And drawing them into a corner, he added as he counted out the money:

“Don CrisÓstomo has come and brought the arms. To-morrow night at eight o’clock meet me in the cemetery. I will give you the final word. Go find your companions.” And he left them.

The brothers appeared to have exchanged rÔles. TÁrsilo now seemed undisturbed; Bruno was pale. They went back to the crowd, which was leaving the circle for the raised seats. Little by little the place became silent. Only the soltadores were left in the ring holding two cocks, with exaggerated care, looking out for wounds. The silence became solemn; the spectators became mere caricatures of men; the fight was about to begin.