All turned toward Makaraig, who went on: “Until recently, gentlemen, the pansit was believed to be Chinese or Japanese, but the fact is that, being unknown in China or Japan, it would seem to be Filipino, yet those who prepare it and get the benefit from it are the Chinese—the same, the very, very same that happens to the government and to the Philippines: they seem to be Chinese, but whether they are or not, the Holy Mother has her doctors—all eat and enjoy it, yet characterize it as disagreeable and loathsome, the same as with the country, the same as with the government. All live at its cost, all share in its feast, and afterwards there is no worse country than the Philippines, there is no government more imperfect. Let us then dedicate the pansit to the country and to the government.” “Agreed!” many exclaimed. “I protest!” cried Isagani. “Respect for the weaker, respect for the victims,” called Pecson in a hollow voice, waving a chicken-bone in the air. “Let’s dedicate the pansit to Quiroga the Chinaman, one of the four powers of the Filipino world,” proposed Isagani. “No, to his Black Eminence.” “Silence!” cautioned one mysteriously. “There are people in the plaza watching us, and walls have ears.” True it was that curious groups were standing by the windows, while the talk and laughter in the adjoining houses had ceased altogether, as if the people there were giving their attention to what was occurring at the banquet. There was something extraordinary about the silence. “Tadeo, deliver your speech,” Makaraig whispered to him. It had been agreed that Sandoval, who possessed the most oratorical ability, should deliver the last toast as a summing up. Tadeo, lazy as ever, had prepared nothing, so he found himself in a quandary. While disposing of a long string of vermicelli, he meditated how to get out of the difficulty, until he recalled a speech learned in school and decided to plagiarize it, with adulterations. “Beloved brethren in project!” he began, gesticulating with two Chinese chop-sticks. “Brute! Keep that chop-stick out of my hair!” cried his neighbor. “Called by you to fill the void that has been left in—” “Plagiarism!” Sandoval interrupted him. “That speech was delivered by the president of our lyceum.” “Called by your election,” continued the imperturbable Tadeo, “to fill the void that has been left in my mind”—pointing to his stomach—“by a man famous for his Christian principles and for his inspirations and projects, worthy of some little remembrance, what can one like myself say of him, I who am very hungry, not having breakfasted?” “Have a neck, my friend!” called a neighbor, offering that portion of a chicken. “There is one course, gentlemen, the treasure of a people who are today a tale and a mockery in the world, wherein have thrust their hands the greatest gluttons of the western regions of the earth—” Here he pointed with his chopsticks to Sandoval, who was struggling with a refractory chicken-wing.