The first day he had come to school he had been very angry because, turning around upon the crash of a chart, upset by one of the boys in a sly antic, he had found all the index-fingers converging dutifully upon the abashed culprit. He was very queer. He did not like the boys to tell on each other. Every morning he made them go through violent movements with their arms, their legs, their bodies; and they were very tired, for the palay crop had failed and they had little in their stomachs. But if he was queer at school, he was still more queer at home. One Saturday afternoon, Carnota, peering with his brother into the Maestro's house, had retreated suddenly, very much awed and astonished. For the Maestro, in his shirt sleeves, was insanely pounding away at a big, round ball that hung from the ceiling by a string. He hit and hit and hit, and the ball rebounded from his fist to the ceiling so fast that it sounded like the escribiente beating a bandillo upon his drum, only much louder. The man and the woman stood before the Maestro, thinking of these things. And he stood before them, also thinking. He was before a result, and he wondered if it was good. * * * * * He thought of the little boy. He saw him again as he had seen him on his first day as Teacher of Balangilang--a little niño with a big round head sunk in between sharp shoulders, and big brown eyes that looked up into his own, half-scared, half-loving. He was a very little boy, Carnota, and his peculiar uncertainty of movement made him still more babyish. His face was dirty and his nose needed a handkerchief. His camisa was open in front, and the abdomen projected over the trouser-band in a soft roll of fat. Somehow that was what remained the most vividly in the Maestro's memory--the vision of that roll of baby-flesh that had suddenly filled his heart with unmanly softness. That was the day of the "my" and "your" struggle. "Do you see the hat?" the Maestro had asked. "Yiss, I ssee dde hhett," staccattoed the class in answer. "My hat," said the Maestro, pointing to his cap; "your hat," he said, pointing to the reduced version of a dilapidated nipa roof which served to cover Carnota's head. "Now, [pointing to his own], do you see my hat?" "Yiss, I sse my hett," answered the urchin confidently. "No, no," said the Maestro. "This is my hat, not your hat; it is my hat. Do you see my hat, my, my hat?" "Yiss, I see my, my hhett," answered Carnota, his eyes alight with sweet obedience. The Maestro paused and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. "Now, let us begin again," he went on with determination in his eye. "My hat, your hat; your hat, my hat. This is my hat; this is your hat. Now, show me your hat." "Your hat," said Carnota, pointing to his own. "No, no, that is not my hat; that is your hat; this is my hat, that is your hat. Now, show me my hat, my hat." "My hat, my hat!" shouted Carnota, triumphantly pointing to the Maestro's.