The noise, which up to this time has been violent, here breaks into a paroxysm of tumultuous disorder. Each spectator is yelling for his favorite bird, which he designates by its color; this singsong chatter, being a jumble of the Spanish, Tagalog, and Chinese tongues, runs like this: Color row, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, blanco, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong, negro, negro, negro, focho, color row, blanco, Ki tim chung a wong. This is grand music for mutes and boiler-makers! The spurs, unlike the sharp-pointed gaff’s used on American game-cocks, are small steel blades shaped like a razor and honed to an extreme degree of keenness. After the spurs are fastened on and each Filipino is satisfied with the ire of his bird, they are pitted, the owners leave the pit, and the battle is waged; not in accordance with Dr. Clark’s rules of the United States, however, as cock-fighting was in vogue in the Philippines for ages before the discovery of America. As the battle is waged, each bird seems conscious of the dire effects of the fatal blade of its adversary; they strut, crouch, and spar, each with eyes intent on the slightest move of the other. “Mucho bueno combati este negro,” shouts the Filipino as the red fowl narrowly escapes a lunge from the spur of the black. “Negro, negro, buena negro minok,” shout the backers of the black fowl, which, unlike in the case of the opponents in a prize-fight, the applause tends to intimidate, rather than inspire courage in the feathery tribe. “Spearo poco tiempo,” exclaims the red fowl’s admirer. “Caramba spearo,” cries the follower of the black with vehemence; “poco tiempo, este negro, murto este outro minok, tiene mucho jinero fora compra chow fora pickinniny, no mas traubaho.” This mixture of Igorrote and Tagalog translated means, “There will be a hot time in one nippa shack if the black bird wins.” “Aha!” is uttered in crescendo. They have struck; feathers fly over the pit, and blood flows from the red fowl; they strike again, the red bird limps, and is seen to run, followed by the black, which is bleeding profusely from a gash hidden by its feathers; this brings forth tremendous cheers, which, however, die down as the crucial moment is observed. “Can it come back?” Both are weakening; the red game turns, with that blind spontaneity and instinct animated by fear; they crouch and strike together; a spur has reached the vital spot; the black swoons, its vital functions have ceased, and the battle is at an end. As the red fowl is proclaimed the winner, it is seen to sink, game to the last second; with its life it has paid the price of the victory. “They are dead game chickens,” remarks a soldier as they are carried from the pit. Bets are now paid off, and the pit is sprinkled with fresh sand, new wagers are laid, and the main continues.