There you will see many with mournful faces carrying by the feet corpses picked of their feathers; the creature that was the favorite for months, petted and cared for day and night, on which were founded such flattering hopes, is now nothing more than a carcass to be sold for a peseta or to be stewed with ginger and eaten that very night. Sic transit gloria mundi! The loser returns to the home where his anxious wife and ragged children await him, without his money or his chicken.
Of all that golden dream, of all those vigils during months from the dawn of day to the setting of the sun, of all those fatigues and labors, there results only a peseta, the ashes left from so much smoke.
In this foyer even the least intelligent takes part in the discussion, while the man of most hasty judgment conscientiously investigates the matter, weighs, examines, extends the wings, feels the muscles of the cocks. Some go very well-dressed, surrounded and followed by the partisans of their champions; others who are dirty and bear the imprint of vice on their squalid features anxiously follow the movements of the rich to note the bets, since the purse may become empty but the passion never satiated. No countenance here but is animated—not here is to be found the indolent, apathetic, silent Filipino—all is movement, passion, eagerness. It may be, one would say, that they have that thirst which is quickened by the water of the swamp.
From this place one passes into the arena, which is known as the Rueda, the wheel. The ground here, surrounded by bamboo-stakes, is usually higher than that in the two other divisions. In the back part, reaching almost to the roof, are tiers of seats for the spectators, or gamblers, since these are the same. During the fights these seats are filled with men and boys who shout, clamor, sweat, quarrel, and blaspheme—fortunately, hardly any women get in this far. In the Rueda are the men of importance, the rich, the famous bettors, the contractor, the referee.
On the perfectly leveled ground the cocks fight, and from there Destiny apportions to the families smiles or tears, feast or famine.
At the time of entering we see the gobernadorcillo, Capitan Pablo, Capitan Basilio, and Lucas, the man with the sear on his face who felt so deeply the death of his brother.
Capitan Basilio approaches one of the townsmen and asks, “Do you know which cock Capitan Tiago is going to bring?”
“I don’t know, sir. This morning two came, one of them the lásak that whipped the Consul’s talisain.” 1
“Do you think that my bulik is a match for it?”
“I should say so! I’ll bet my house and my camisa on it!”
At that moment Capitan Tiago arrives, dressed like the heavy gamblers, in a camisa of Canton linen, woolen pantaloons, and a wide straw hat. Behind him come two servants carrying the lásak and a white cock of enormous size.
“Sinang tells me that Maria is improving all the time,” says Capitan Basilio.
“She has no more fever but is still very weak.”
“Did you lose last night?”
“A little. I hear that you won. I’m going to see if I can’t get even here.”
“Do you want to fight the lásak? ” asks Capitan Basilio, looking at the cock and taking it from the servant. “That depends—if there’s a bet.”
“How much will you put up?”
“I won’t gamble for less than two.”
“Have you seen my bulik? ” inquires Capitan Basilio, calling to a man who is carrying a small game-cock.
Capitan Tiago examines it and after feeling its weight and studying its scales returns it with the question, “How much will you put up?”
“Whatever you will.”
“Two, and five hundred?”
“Three?”
“Three!”
“For the next fight after this!”
The chorus of curious bystanders and the gamblers spread the news that two celebrated cocks will fight, each of which has a history and a well-earned reputation. All wish to see and examine the two celebrities, opinions are offered, prophecies are made.
Meanwhile, the murmur of the voices grows, the confusion increases, the Rueda is broken into, the seats are filled. The skilled attendants carry the two cocks into the arena, a white and a red, already armed but with the gaffs still sheathed.
Cries are heard, “On the white!” “On the white!” while some other voice answers, “On the red!” The odds are on the white, he is the favorite; the red is the “outsider,” the dejado.
Members of the Civil Guard move about in the crowd. They are not dressed in the uniform of that meritorious corps, but neither are they in civilian costume.
Trousers of guingón with a red stripe, a camisa stained blue from the faded blouse, and a service-cap, make up their costume, in keeping with their deportment; they make bets and keep watch, they raise disturbances and talk of keeping the peace.
While the spectators are yelling, waving their hands, flourishing and clinking pieces of silver; while they search in their pockets for the last coin, or, in the lack of such, try to pledge their word, promising to sell the carabao or the next crop, two boys, brothers apparently, follow the bettors with wistful eyes, loiter about, murmur timid words to which no one listens, become more and more gloomy and gaze at one another ill-humoredly and dejectedly. Lucas watches them covertly, smiles malignantly, jingles his silver, passes close to them, and gazing
into the Rueda, cries out:
“Fifty, fifty to twenty on the white!”
The two brothers exchange glances.
“I told you,” muttered the elder, “that you shouldn’t have put up all the money. If you had listened to me we should now have something to bet on the red.”
The younger timidly approached Lucas and touched him on the arm.
“Oh, it’s you!” exclaimed the latter, turning around with feigned surprise. “Does your brother accept my proposition or do you want to bet?”
“How can we bet when we’ve lost everything?”
“Then you accept?”
“He doesn’t want to! If you would lend us something, now that you say you know us—”