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 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 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, SeÑor. 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.”

“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:

“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 are hanged or shot down. We poor serve for nothing else.”

“You are right, but think of our sister.”

In the meantime, the circle around the ring had been dispersed; the fight was going to commence. The voices began to die away, and the two soltadores and the skilled gaff fitter, were alone in the middle of the rueda. At a signal from the referee, the sheaths were removed from the razor-like knives on the cocks’ legs, and the fine blades glistened in a menacing way.

The two brothers, gloomy and silent, approached the ring and, resting their faces against the bamboo railing, watched the preparations. A man approached them and said in their ears: “Hundred to ten on the blanco!”

Tarsilo looked at him stupidly. Bruno elbowed his brother, who responded with a grunt.

The soltadores handle the roosters with masterly skill, taking great care not to wound them. A deep silence reigns throughout the pit. You would think that those present, with the exception of the two soltadores, were horrible wax figures. The two roosters are brought close together and allowed to pick at each other and thus become irritated. Then they allow them to look at each other, so that the poor little birds may know who has plucked out their feathers, and with whom they should fight. The feathers around the neck stand up; they look at each other fixedly; flashes of wrath escape from their little, round eyes. The moment has come. The birds are placed on the ground in the ring at a certain distance from each other.

The cocks advance slowly. Their little steps are heard upon the hard floor. Nobody speaks; nobody breathes. Lowering and raising their heads, as if measuring each other with a look, the two roosters mutter sounds, perhaps of threat or contempt. They have perceived the shining blades. Danger animates them, and they turn toward each other decided, but they stop at a short distance, and, as they look at each other, they bow their heads and again raise their feathers on end. With their natural valor, they rush at each other impetuously; they strike beak against beak; breast against breast, blade against blade, and wing against wing. The blows have been stopped with dexterity and skill, and only a few feathers have fallen. They again measure each other! Suddenly the blanco turns and, raising himself in the air, flashes his death-dealing knife, but the rojo has already doubled up his legs, ducked his head and the blanco has only cut the air. Then, on touching the ground, to avoid being wounded from behind, he turns quickly and faces the other. The red attacks him with fury, but he defends himself with coolness. Not without reason was he the favorite of the crowd. All, trembling and anxious, follow the movements of the battle, now this one and now that one giving an involuntary shout. The ground is being covered with red and white feathers, tinged with blood. But the duel does not go to the one who draws first blood. The Filipino here follows the laws laid down by the Government, which say that the cock which is killed or flees loses the fight. The blood now wets the ground; the blows are repeated, but the victory is still undecided. Finally, making a supreme effort, the blanco throws himself forward to give a last blow; he drives his knife into the wing of the rojo and buries it among the bones. But the blanco has been wounded in the breast, and both, weak from loss of blood, and panting, fastened together, remain immovable until the blanco falls, bleeds through his neck, kicks violently and is in the agony of death. The rojo, pinned by his wing, is held to the other’s side; and little by little he doubles up his legs and slowly closes his eyes.

Then the referee, in accordance with the regulations prescribed by the Government, declares the rojo the winner. A wild and prolonged outcry greets the decision, an outcry which is heard throughout the town. He, who, from afar, hears the cry, understands that the dejado has beaten the favorite, for otherwise the outcry would not have lasted so long. So it happens among nations: when a small nation succeeds in gaining a victory over a greater one, the song and story of it last through centuries.

“Do you see?” said Bruno, with indignation, to his brother, “if you had taken my advice to-day, we would have had one hundred pesos. On your account we are without a cuarto.”

Tarsilo did not reply, but, with wide-open eyes, looked around him as if in search of some one.

“There he is talking with Pedro,” added Bruno. “He is giving him money—what a lot of money!”

Tarsilo remained silent and thoughtful. With the arm of his camisa, he wiped away the sweat which formed in drops on his forehead.

“Brother,” said Bruno, “I am decided, even if you are not. The lÁsak ought to win and we ought not to lose the opportunity. I want to bet on the next fight. What does it matter? Thus, we will avenge our father.”

“Wait!” said Tarsilo to him, and looked him in the eyes. Both were pale. “I am with you. You are right. We will avenge our father.”

He stopped, however, and again wiped away the perspiration.

“Why do you stop?” asked Bruno impatiently.

“Do you know what fight is the next one? Is it worth the trouble?”

“What! Haven’t you heard? Captain Tiago’s lÁsak against Captain Basilio’s bulik. According to the run of luck, the lÁsak ought to win.”

“Ah! The lÁsak. I would bet ... but let us make sure first.”

Bruno made a gesture of impatience, but followed his brother. The latter looked the rooster over carefully, thought about it, debated with himself and asked a few questions. The unfortunate fellow was in doubt. Bruno was nervous and looked at him angrily.

“Why, don’t you see that wide scale which he has there near the spur? Do you see those feet? What more do you want? Look at those legs. Stretch out his wings. And that broken scale on top of that wide one, and that double one?”

Tarsilo did not hear him, he kept on examining the cock. The rattle of silver coins reached his ears.

“Let us see the bulik now,” said he, in a choking voice.

Bruno stamped the ground with his feet, grated his teeth, but obeyed his brother.

They approached the other group. There they were arming the cock, they were selecting gaffs for him, and the expert, in fitting them to the rooster’s legs, was preparing a piece of red silk. He waxed it and rubbed it over his knee a number of times.

Tarsilo gazed at the bird with a sombre air. It seemed that he was not looking at the cock, but at something in the future. He passed his hand over his forehead.

“Are you ready?” he asked his brother, his voice scarcely perceptible.

“I? Long ago. Without having to see them.”

“It is our poor sister——”

“Bah! Didn’t they tell you that the leader is Don Crisostomo? Have you not seen him walking with the Governor General? What danger will we run?”

“And if we are killed?”

“What does it matter? Our father died from being whipped to death.”

“You are right.”

Both brothers sought Lucas in the crowd.

As soon as they caught sight of him, Tarsilo stopped.

“No! Let us go away from here! We are going to lose,” he exclaimed.

“Go if you wish. I am going to accept.”

“Bruno!”

Unfortunately, a man approached them and said:

“Are you betting? I am backing the bulik.”

The two brothers did not reply.

“I’ll give you odds.”

“How much?” asked Bruno.

The man counted out four peso pieces. Bruno looked at him, breathless.

“I have two hundred. Fifty to forty.”

“No,” said Bruno promptly. “Make it ...”

“All right! fifty to thirty.”

“Double it if you wish!”

“Well! The bulik is my winning color and I have just won. Hundred against sixty!”

“That’s a go! Wait till I go and get my money.”

“But I will be the stake-holder,” said the other, in whom the manner of Bruno inspired little confidence.

“It’s all the same to me!” responded the latter, trusting in the strength of his fists.And, turning to his brother, he said:

“Go away, if you wish; I’m going to stay.”

Then Tarsilo reflected. He loved his brother and the game. He could not leave him alone, and he murmured. “Let it be so!”

They approached Lucas. The latter saw them coming and smiled.

“Eh! there!” said Tarsilo.

“What is it?”

“How much do you give?” asked the two brothers.

“I have already told you. If you want to find some others to help us surprise the cuartel, I will give you thirty pesos apiece, and ten pesos for each companion you get. If all comes out well, each will receive one hundred pesos and you two, double that amount. Don Crisostomo is rich.”

“Accepted,” exclaimed Bruno. “Hand over the money.”

“I knew well that you were brave, like your father. Come! Don’t let them hear us or they will kill us,” said Lucas, pointing to the Civil Guards.

And taking them into a corner, he told them, as he counted out the money to them:

“To-morrow Don Crisostomo will arrive and bring arms. Day after to-morrow, about eight o’clock at night, come to the cemetery. I will tell you about the final arrangements. You have time to find some other companions.”

They took leave of each other. Now the two brothers seemed to have changed their rÔles. Tarsilo was calm; Bruno, pale.