They flap, fly
at each other, fly over, peck, seize by the neck, let go, rest a
moment, and begin again, getting more and more excited with each round.
The negro separates them, when about to draw blood. And as for Don
Manuel, he goes mad over them, like an Italian _maestro_ over his
favorite pupil. "_Hombre, hombre!_" he cries to the negro, "what a
cock! By Heaven, what a couple! _Ave Maria santisima!_ did one ever see
such spirit? _Santisima Trinidad!_ is there such fighting in all
Matanzas?" Having got pretty well through with the calendar of the
saints, he takes out his watch;--the fight has lasted long enough. One
of the champions retires to take a little repose; another is brought in
his place; the negro takes him, and boxes him about the ears of the
remaining fowl,--brushing him above his head, and underneath, and on
his back, to accustom him to every method of attack. Don Manuel informs
us that the cock made use of in this way is the father of the other,
and exclaims, with an air of mock compassion, _Pobre padre!_ "Poor
father!" The exercise being concluded, he takes a small feather, and
cleans out therewith the throat of either chicken, which proves to be
full of the sand of the arena, and which he calls _porqueria_, "dirt.
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