“‘Oh, I was not cochero. I was cook to señor S——.’
“‘And then?’
“‘Then as muchacho with señor C——, and then as cook——’
“‘And you are a cook, not a cochero!’
“‘Oh no. Mi trabajo (my job) is really a cochero, but I went as cook to señor L——, and as muchacho to señor C——, and as——’
“‘Yes, yes. I heard what you said.’
“Then, as this is as good a man as you may hope to get, you engage him, and it is a great piece of luck if you get half your fares, and the pony not killed.”
This story, and many others I have heard to the same effect, account, in some measure, for the marvellous and eccentric driving one sees going on—one can hardly call it “driving,” though, it is simply a rough and tumble with destiny, and there are more street accidents in Iloilo in any given number of hours than in the same time in the whole of London.
It is so Filipino to be content with make-shifts—the same thing, the same lazy Malay, and Spanish Mañana in their food, their music, their houses, their work—nothing thorough, nothing complete, no heart put into anything but cock-fighting and talk. I don’t suppose any influence could alter these racial faults, certainly not the hasty assimilation of mathematics, electric trams, and ice-cream sodas. They are stupid, too, these people, with the malicious cunning of all stupid people, and cruel—sickeningly cruel.
A night or two ago we went again to the cinématograph, but the evening was rather spoilt by an unpleasant “incident.” While C—— was getting the tickets, I sat on an empty bench by the wall, whereupon a common native boy came and sat down beside me.