There was one little game-cock, however, who enthused even the most dispassionate among us. He was small and wiry, and his well kept white feathers testified to a devoted master. How impatient that absurd little rooster was for the fight to begin, and how he struggled to get off his gaff and go into the fray unarmed, the weight on his legs seeming an impediment to action, and how insolently he strutted and crowed before his antagonist, an equally well groomed gentleman of exceptional manners, attired in a gorgeous suit of green and gold. But handsome as the darker rooster was, the white one seemed to be the universal choice, and heavy were the stakes in his favour, so heavy that when, after a few minutes’ fighting, his wing was broken, a general groan went up throughout the cockpit, a groan which merged into sullen silence when the poor little chicken fell before the furious onslaught of his enemy.
Again and again the victorious green and gold rooster jumped upon his prostrate foe, pecking now at his crop, now at his eyes, in a perfect frenzy of triumphant rage, the little white fellow lying so still meanwhile that everyone thought him dead. But suddenly he struggled to his feet, and, despite the grievously broken wing, whipped the big bully in a way to raise a cheer even from the hitherto indifferent Americans.
As for the natives, they simply shouted themselves hoarse, and, contrary to all precedent, jumped down into the pit, throwing their sombreros on high and yelling vigorously, “Muy valiente gallo—muy valiente!” The little rascal had simply been sparring for wind, and he seemed to wink an eye at us after having chased his vanquished enemy to a corner, for, like the coward he was, the green and gold rooster turned tail and ran at the first opportunity.
It is to be hoped that the muy valiente gallo had his wing patched up and lived to tell his tale of bravery to many a barn-yard chick—a war-scarred veteran whose honourable wound entitled him to the respect of all domestic fowl. But knowing Filipino nature, I am rather inclined to think that the white rooster made a very acceptable broth for his master on the following day, the flesh of fighting-cocks being quite too tough for consumption in any other form.
On our return to the ship’s boat we were accompanied to the water’s edge by a juvenile contingent of natives, some of them being our friends of the forenoon, who returned any notice of themselves on our part by a rapturous gleam of teeth and eyes. One of them, a youngster of perhaps ten or eleven, who gloried in the euphonious name of Gogo, was particularly assidious in his attentions, and would come close up to us and say, “I-ese—i-ese—dam’me—i-ese!” going into paroxysms of mirth the while, and wrinkling up his handsome little face at the mere remembrance of the water so cold it was hard.
That night the shore officers took their Christmas dinner with us on the Burnside, and a very jolly evening we made of it. The saloon was entirely covered, ceiling and all, by American and ship’s flags, interspersed with palms, while over the sideboard were suspended the American flag and Union Jack intertwined, this last in honour of our two cable experts, both of them being Britishers. We women donned our smartest frocks, the electric piano, slightly out of tune, did rag-time to perfection, the menu included every conventional Christmas dish, and yet—and yet it was not Christmas, and all the roast turkey and plum pudding in the world could not make it so. It was a very jolly dinner, to be sure, well served and with charming company, but it was not a Christmas dinner. Only Half-a-Woman’s presence saved it and the day from utter failure.
The next morning the presidente of the town, other officials, and some of the leading men and women of Dumaguete made a visit to the ship, and were voluble in their surprise at what was shown them,—the electric lights and fans, the steam galley and ice-machine; the cold-storage room, where one could freeze to death in a few moments; the little buttons on the wall which one had only to touch and a servant appeared to take one’s orders; the wonderful piano that “played itself,”—all were duly admired and exclaimed over.
But what seemed to please and astonish them most of all were the bath-rooms with their white porcelain tubs, tiled floors, and shining silver knobs, which one had only to turn in order to have hot or cold water, either salt or fresh, in the tub, the basin, or the shower. Even the electric piano failed to impress them as did this aqueous marvel, and they crossed themselves and called on the Virgin and all her angels to testify that verily the American nation was a mighty one.
The men were of course greatly interested in our gallant armament of rapid-fire guns, and when the quartermaster, who is a crack shot, hit an improvised target in the water several times in succession with a one-pounder in the stern of the ship, the Filipinos were astounded, and stared at him in even greater admiration than they had shown for the formidable little weapon. Two shotguns of newest design were also brought on deck, and while the native women were frankly bored at this display of ordnance and preferred to talk about the way our gowns were made, the men were delighted, declaring they never imagined a gun could be broken in pieces and put together again so easily.
Before our guests left, lemonade and cake were served on the quarter-deck, and it was really amusing to watch their faces as they discussed the coldness of the drink, while the pieces of ice in their glasses excited as much perturbation as the untutored savages had shown the day before. One travelled lady, however, who had been to Iloilo once and tasted ice there, drank her lemonade with ostentatious indifference to its temperature, as became one versed in the ways of the world, explaining to me with condescension a few moments later that the Iloilo ice had been much colder than ours,—an item of physical research which I accepted politely.