RATHER ODD.
"Papa," said Jimmieboy, "you are the nicest man in the world."
"And you are the nicest boy in the world," said his father.
"Yes; I guess that's so," said Jimmieboy. "Isn't it queer how we both managed to get into the same family."
THE BOMBARDMENT OF THE GOLDEN GATE.
BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.
"A strange fleet is in sight to the westward." This is the startling report of the telephone from the Farallone Islands, situated twenty-eight miles nearly due west of San Francisco. The General receives the report without a sign of the anxiety he feels, and continues his study of the huge maps before him. He is contemplating the vast amount of work that has been accomplished in the last three months since war had been declared. Then San Francisco had been a defenceless city at the mercy of the most insignificant enemy; now it is as near impregnable as human skill and ingenuity can make it.
The General takes a lingering look at the maps on his desk; running over the different forts, he sees with pride that there is nothing left undone.
Point Bonito. Point Diablo. Lime Point.
Point Lobos. Sutro Heights. Mortar Battery. Mining Station. Fort Point.
BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF THE GOLDEN GATE.
On Point Lobos, the southern cape of the outer harbor, on high bluffs, are three 16-inch rifles mounted on disappearing carriages, the guns, in the loading position, being behind breastworks of earth and concrete. In this position the guns are sighted, then going up to the firing position above the earthwork for only a few seconds on firing, and then recoiling to their position of safety. On the high land between Point Lobos and Fort Point are two 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles in Grueson turrets, the armor consisting of eighteen inches of Harveyized nickel steel. The turrets are segments of a sphere, and are manipulated similarly to those on a battle-ship. A little higher up is one of the two formidable pneumatic guns, the explosion of whose shell within twenty yards of a ship would send her to the bottom. At Fort Point, the southern cape of the Golden Gate, in earthworks of old design patched up and strengthened, are four 10-inch rifles with disappearing carriages. On the northern cape of the Gate, Point Bonito, are three 16-inch rifles mounted in a similar way. The second pneumatic terror is also at this point, commanding the entrance to the Gate. Point Diablo is fortified with three 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles on disappearing carriages, and Lime Point will defend the harbor with four 10-inch rifles mounted in the same way. The outer harbor seaward of Fort Point and Point Diablo has been well mined, making it impossible for a vessel to enter in safety even though she had escaped the tons of steel hurled at her. The cables from the mines are led to a central station on the bluffs back of Fort Point. If by chance the enemy's ships should ride over this hidden explosive, the simple pressure of a key in this station would send them all to destruction. At the mine station are two observers, who, by an instrument similar to a range finder, discover from time to time the position of the enemy on their chart. When the unlucky vessel is over a mine the key is pressed.
On Sutro Heights is a heavily armored tower, the inside of which to an inexperienced eye would appear like a central telephone station. It is the General's headquarters in action. From here he and his staff will direct and control the battle. This is the brain of the intricate fortifications. The nerves run to every battery and central station, making it but the work of a minute to transmit orders to any point. Before another half-hour has slipped away everything is activity within the forts. The wires from the General's tower are busy with the many orders transmitted.
Actual hostilities began months ago in the East, but as yet have not laid their cruel hand on the Pacific slope. New York has been the scene of most of the strife.
While the army has been making the Golden Gate a fortress, the navy has not been idle. All the fighting ships on the coast have been collected, and the work on the new ones so expedited that a formidable fleet has been massed in the harbor. The Oregon, the only first-class battle-ship of the West, cleared for action, the Admiral's blue flag flying at her truck, is lying behind Alcatraz Island; made fast to the different mooring-buoys by slip-ropes is the rest of the Pacific fleet. The Monterey, low and formidable, is nearest the island, barely distinguishable against the dark land; her heavily armored turrets, bristling each with two great 12-inch rifles, are a menace to any battle-ship. The Monadnock, a double-turreted vessel, is close to the Oregon; in her turrets she carries two 12-inch and two 10-inch rifles, and inside of her dark hull are brave men who will show the enemy that the American monitor is as deadly a foe as of old. The Olympia, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston, Bennington, and Yorktown, all protected cruisers, are equally ready to do battle with any of the enemy that it is their duty to encounter.
The foreign fleet is now in sight from Sutro Heights. A glance through the powerful telescope tells the General it is the enemy—six first-class battle-ships and eight cruisers, for the belligerent country depends upon the capture of this rich city to defray the heavy expense of the war.
They are approaching in double column, the battle-ships leading. Nearer and nearer they come. The range-finders at the different batteries show the range is rapidly diminishing. News has reached San Francisco, and the high bluffs about the city are thronged with an excited crowd. The blue-coated regulars have dispersed from the little knots about the guns, and have gone to their stations, and stand ready at the command to open the greatest battle the West has ever seen. On the ships of the enemy come, majestically cutting the smooth sea, throwing the silvery spray upon their bare forecastles, over which their heavy turret guns are to soon speak.
"Four miles, sir!" reports one of the General's aides. The batteries at Lobos and Bonito are ordered to open fire. The six big 16-inch rifles thunder forth their challenge almost simultaneously, and nearly three and a half tons of steel go speeding toward the approaching enemy. All eyes are turned seaward, and are just in time to see columns of water thrown up close aboard the on-coming ships. Again and again the heavy batteries speak; shot after shot goes on its deadly flight, making havoc on board the silent vessels. The fleet is approaching at nearly fifteen-knot speed; it will take them but eight minutes to reach the range, when tons of gun-cotton will be sent out to meet them both above and below the peaceful sea. They are heading directly for the entrance. What can be their intention? Will they dare attempt to run the forts? Do they suppose the harbor is clear of mines and they have naught to fear save the guns? The range-finder dials point to 4000 yards from the Gate. All the guns on the forts are blazing forth fire, but the gunners' aims are poor, and the better part of the shots are fruitlessly ploughing up the sea in the vicinity of the enemy. One well-aimed 16-inch shell strikes home on the nearest ship; her armor is pierced, and she has become unmanageable and drops out of the advancing columns. Nearer and nearer comes the fighting. At last the dreaded puffs of smoke dart from the battle-ships' turrets, and the shells are coming screeching ashore, tearing up the earth in the fortifications. With a glass one of the aides is scanning the sea at the entrance to the harbor. An exclamation escapes him as his glass focuses on some object of interest; with a flinger trembling with emotion he points out to the General two small red flags, barely distinguishable on the water's surface, midway between Point Lobos and the nearest ship. A glance shows it to be the flags on the Sims-Edison controllable torpedo. Out it goes at a terrific speed; nearer and nearer it approaches its intended victim. Harmless enough look these small pieces of bunting, but underneath the water not many feet lurk nearly five hundred pounds of deadly gun-cotton. It has passed astern of the leading ship. Will it run out its scope and fail? A small column of water is seen to ascend from the flags, and the next moment the second battle-ship is nearly engulfed in a mighty explosion. The first charge tears the torpedo net; the second makes one less ship to attack the batteries, for she is fast sinking. The gun-cotton has exploded against her steel hull. A cruiser drops out to render assistance.
An explosion that seems like an earthquake to those in the fortifications tells that the first gun-cotton shell has exploded near the enemy. One of the leading battle-ships heels over and slowly sinks beneath the waves; her seams have been opened by the force of the explosion. The enemy now is in irregular formation, more nearly like double echelon; they are pouring in a scathing fire on all the batteries. As they approach the torpedo range they starboard and stand out to sea, bringing to bear their after turrets. Some of their shots have committed awful havoc ashore; gun after gun has been dismounted, one of the pneumatic guns has been struck by a shell and is a total wreck. The remaining controllable torpedoes have failed.
The pneumatic gun on Point Bonito is aimed at the nearest ship, but a mile and a half away; the gauge on the accumulator shows the air pressure is sufficient. The lever is tripped, and the quarter-ton of gun-cotton, with a whir, is hurled on its errand of destruction. The eye can distinguish the aerial torpedo as it soars to the height of its trajectory, and then majestically and swiftly steals down toward its helpless prey. Will it explode? It strikes the water a few yards from the target, but the looked-for explosion does not follow; the fuse has failed. The next minute every gun of the enemy is trained upon this terrible weapon, knowing that if the shell is again let loose their ships will be like chaff before this tremendous power. The enemy is now confident of victory. Signals go up on the flag-ship, and in a very few minutes the old formation is resumed, and once again they head for the harbor.
The firing becomes hot and furious; broadside after broadside belches forth from the enemy's steel sides; a few shells go wide into the city, and dense columns of black smoke from the buildings set on fire lend a more awesome aspect to the picture depicted.
HE SEES THE FAMOUS "OREGON" COME RUSHING DOWN TO THE FIGHT.
The observers at the mining-station are nervous with the suppressed excitement within them. The ships of the enemy plot on their chart only eight hundred yards away from their mines. Will it be their fortune to decide the fate of the Golden City? The ships still advance. Soon they will be over the mines. A pressure of the key under the hand will discharge tons of the hidden explosive.
But the enemy has stopped. What does this foretell? Five hundred yards from the mines the ships are nearly motionless in the troubled sea lashed to foam by the ploughing of so much steel.
All the batteries are now doing splendid work. Explosion follows explosion on board the intruding ships. Two cruisers are unmanageable and on fire; they drift onto the rocks almost within a stone's throw of one of the batteries. Suddenly torpedoes shoot from the bow tubes of the leading ships, and a few moments afterward tremendous columns of water are seen to rise from the bay, and the next second the sound of a mighty discharge reaches the expectant ears of the defenders of the Gate. The officer at the mining-key knows from the spark that jumps across under his hand that the enemy has countermined and the harbor is clear. The struggle has come to such close quarters that the rapid-fire and machine gun fire lends its sharp cracking report to the dull roar of the heavy guns.
"PREPARE TO RAM."
But the foe has stopped too long! The mortar battery on Lobos has gotten his range. Suddenly with a whir a column of smoke rises in the air just over the bay, and a bunch of 16-inch mortar shells falls upon the battle-ships' unprotected decks. One shell strikes over the boilers of one of the ships, penetrating them a second later, the explosion of which rends her asunder; and where this powerful steel-clad had been but a moment before is but the hissing foam of troubled waters.
The General sees the fight has now reached the critical point; the cruisers have dashed ahead and will soon be within the harbor. Many of the batteries have been put out of action by the well-aimed shots of the enemy. The navy is needed, but the telephone connection with the station has been severed; the signal has not been made. Time is precious. A few minutes more, and the whole fleet will be within the bay of San Francisco, and, without the batteries, will be more than a match for the few United States ships.
An exclamation involuntarily escapes from the General's lips as he sees the famous Oregon emerge from behind Alcatraz Island, and come rushing down to the fight.
The small fleet was thought too valuable to hazard against such as the enemy brought. The plan was not to expose it till the signal was made. But the Admiral, behind Alcatraz Island, has been pacing up and down the deck of his battle-ship, tugging at the restraining bonds, growing more and more impatient as the cannonading has become more furious. The crews of the ships feel the inactivity keenly; anything is better than this suspense. Why does not the signal come? The Admiral will wait no longer, but slips his moorings, regardless of consequences, and appears in the nick of time with his fleet to bar the entrance to the bay.
ANOTHER IS FORCED TO STRIKE THE WHITE FLAG.
The Oregon, Monterey, and Monadnock engage the two remaining battle-ships. There is no sea-room for manœuvring, and the rapid way in which the Yankee guns are served shows that they are more than a match for their huge enemies. The cruisers have closed in for the death-struggle; every weapon of modern warfare is being employed; two ships of the foe and one of his opponent's have been torpedoed, and in another moment one of ours rams their biggest battle-ship. The General on shore can almost hear the command, "Prepare to ram." It is so quickly and skilfully executed. The forts have now become inactive, fearing to fire lest by chance one of their own ships might be struck.
The enemy suddenly begins to retreat, leaving two of his ships on the rocks, while another is forced to strike the white flag.
Night has come on. The sun has an hour ago gone below the western horizon. The evening fog-bank comes in and mingles with the battle smoke about the silent batteries, which only a short time before were the scene of bloodshed and war. The brave defenders may sleep in peace in their blankets and hammocks. The pride of the enemy has been humbled, and the beautiful city of San Francisco is safe from torch and shell.
SHARK-CATCHING IN MID-OCEAN.
BY A. J. KENEALY.
The Rajah made good progress south, the northeast trades blowing her thither swiftly. We were fast approaching the belt of calms, squalls, rain, and variable winds known to sailors as the "doldrums."
The skipper had four coops of fat ducks which he tended with loving care. He just doted on them stuffed with sage and onions, and while they were being roasted he used to hang about the galley enjoying the savory odors that escaped from the oven. One morning while it was raining as though the gates of heaven had been opened wide the Captain thought he would give his pets a treat. The ship was heeling over considerably, being close-hauled on the starboard tack, with all her flying kites dowsed to the puffy breeze. He ordered the lee scuppers to be plugged up, and as soon as a sufficiently large pool had collected on deck, he liberated the ducks so that they might enjoy the luxury of a fresh-water bath. The ducks were delighted, and demonstrated their joy by noisy quacks. The pigs in the pens forward responded with joyous squeaks. The cocks and hens in the long-boat joined in with a merry chorus of crows and cackles. The combined music was that of a barn-yard.
AWAY WENT A DOZEN OF THE DUCKS INTO THE SEA.
The ship heeled over until the scuppers were awash. The weight of all the fresh water on deck as the ship inclined to the squall and rose on the next wave was thrown against a lee port aft near which the ducks were disporting themselves. Now it happened that the lashing of this port was only of spun-yarn, rotten at that. The wash of the water against the port parted the lashing, swung the port wide open, and away went a dozen of the ducks into the sea with a great whir of wings and clamorous cackling.
One of the sailors closed and secured the port before any more of the birds escaped. Then the rest of the watch came aft, running helter-skelter at the hurried hail of the mate, and drove the rest of the flock into their pen. Had there been the slightest chance of capturing the runaways the Captain would have backed the main-topsail, hove the ship to, and lowered the quarter-boat.
Meanwhile the wind had died out. The sails flapped lazily against the mast, and the ship rolled sluggishly on the heaving bosom of old ocean. The clouds rolled away, and the pitiless burning sun shone down on the deck and dried up all the moisture on wood and rope in a few minutes. It was one of those sudden meteorological changes so common in equatorial latitudes. An awning was rigged up over the man at the wheel. The skipper put on a huge topee, or Indian pith helmet, to shelter his head from the sweltering rays which made the pitch boil and bubble up in the seams of the main-deck, and promised plenty of work for the carpenter's calking-irons.
The ducks, obeying a sort of homing instinct, I suppose, swam up to the now almost motionless ship, and continued their sport nearly within a stone's throw. Suddenly a bright idea struck the skipper.
"See the lee quarter-boat clear for lowering!" he shouted to the second mate. Then he put his head down the cabin skylight and ordered the steward to bring up his breech-loader and a lot of cartridges. The boat was lowered and manned. A side ladder was rigged; the Captain with his gun descended and took up a position in the bow, from which he directed operations. The cockswain seized the tiller-ropes. "Shove off let fall give way!" he cried, all in one breath, without any regard to punctuation, so excited was he, and in such a hurry to get within gunshot of the ducks. If he could not catch them alive, he meant to have them dead.
The boat was headed for the flock. When within easy range the skipper let them have it right and left. His aim was so good that he brought down three. It took some time to pick them up, which gave the scared flock an opportunity to get out of gunshot. None others, as it happened, were fated to fall victims to the deadly breech-loader of our sportsman-skipper. The dorsal fins of six sharks were observed sticking up above the surface of the water, and converging from different directions on the doomed ducks. Sharks are abundant in equatorial waters, and they follow ships for miles. Some of them are very large. All are voracious and ugly customers to tackle.
The way those sharks gobbled up those ducks was a sight to behold. They were disposed of in three minutes. The Captain was terribly angry. He tried to revenge himself by peppering the sharks with shot, but it is doubtful if the leaden pellets made the slightest impression on their tough hides, even if he succeeded in hitting them.
The boat pulled back to the ship, and was hoisted to the davits. The calm continued. Four of the sharks came up alongside, eager for more ducks. Such appetizing fare was seldom theirs. Stray garbage from passing ships, flotsam from the forecastle, composed the diet upon which they usually depended in addition to their steady prey of fish. The Captain brooded over the loss of his ducks for some time. Then he made up his mind to have a little shark-fishing, and thus combine revenge and recreation.
He sent below for a brand-new shark-hook with a sharp and cruel barb. To the ring of the hook was attached a stout chain a fathom long. A shark's teeth are so sharp and strong that they can bite through the stoutest rope with singular ease. To the end of the chain the skipper bent on a two-and-a-half-inch manilla line, and having impaled a four-pound piece of pork on the hook, hove it overboard, with the remark that he intended to have a slice of fresh shark for supper.
The sharks were playing about the rudder on the lookout for any stray trifles that might come along their way from a sailor down to a beef bone. They are not at all fastidious or dainty. It was my first experience of shark-fishing, and I was a keen and interested observer. The water was so clear that I could watch every motion of the four monsters as they swam slowly about, each one attended by his own particular body-guard of pilot-fish—pretty little creatures shaped something like perch, with blue vertical stripes. Ichthyologists declare that these fish attend the shark for the purpose of preying upon the parasites that infest him. This may be a true explanation, but I cannot understand how it is that a hungry deep-sea shark, that will snap up anything living or dead, permits these plump little fish to play unscathed about his enormous jaws. There are other curious things about these pilot-fish that naturalists cannot explain. They only attach themselves to the pelagic species found in deep water; there are always five or seven of them to each shark, never an even number; they stick to the shark while he is floundering about in the water with a hook through his jaws, but as soon as he is hoisted above the surface of the sea they immediately disappear. Nobody knows what becomes of them.
I have had several good opportunities of studying the habits of sharks, and have always been curious about them. As a matter of fact, very little is known concerning the ocean variety, which is quite distinct from that of the shore.
No sooner had the pork plashed into the sea than one of the rapacious monsters made a rush for it. The remarkable velocity of this fish was surprising to me, who had never before seen a deep-sea shark in his native element. The water was so beautifully limpid that his every action could be accurately observed. I thought he would gorge the bait immediately, but he did not. When he came up with it, he made a sudden stop. Then he sniffed at it with an air of expectant and suspicious curiosity. The next thing he did was to turn his tail to it contemptuously, and swim away a considerable distance.
"WATCH HIM MAKE A DART FOR IT NOW," SAID THE SKIPPER.
"Watch him make a dart for it now," said the skipper, who was an old hand at shark-catching.
Like a flash the hungry fish went for the tempting bait, turning over so that he might grasp it more conveniently with his wide and cruel jaws. In an instant it was engulfed in his maw. And then there was such a floundering and threshing in the water as I had never before seen. The fierce shark, maddened with the pain of the sharp hook, made frantic but fruitless efforts to escape. He snapped savagely at the strong chain attached to the hook, with the sole result of damaging his own cruel-looking teeth. Meanwhile the fish had been dragged forward to the starboard gangway in spite of his wild struggles. A running bowline was sent down the line that held him, and as the shark was hoisted over the side it was passed over his body and hauled taut round his tail, in order to control the movements of this his most formidable weapon. Instances have been known of a blow from a shark's tail breaking a man's leg on the deck of a vessel immediately after being hauled in over the side.
This fish in question was gigantic. It took eight men to hoist him in-board. "Chips," the carpenter, stood by with a keen axe, and as soon as Mr. Shark's struggling carcass was landed on the deck, with one powerful blow he severed his tail from his body, and thus incapacitated him from mischief. From time immemorial it has been the ship carpenter's privilege and duty to out off the tails of all sharks captured during a deep-sea voyage, and the cook generally despatches him much after the fashion of a Japanese when he performs on himself the queer right of hari-kari.
"Chips," said the skipper, addressing the carpenter, "before you cut that shark up, just pull that rule out of your pocket and measure him. He seems quite a big fellow."
And a big fellow he proved to be, measuring 30 feet 8½ inches long. The Captain said he was the largest one he had ever seen, but the chief mate declared he had once captured one that measured 38 feet, and he had sailed with a skipper who had hauled one in-board that was fully 40 feet in length. As a matter of fact, specimens of pelagic sharks are displayed in museums that exceed 40 feet, but they are very rare. In Florida varieties of fossil sharks have been dug up whose length "over all" averages more than 50 feet, but these are now happily extinct.
Seafaring men are not as a rule a bloodthirsty race, but they look upon sharks as their natural enemies, and against them they wage relentless warfare; and whenever one is hooked they rejoice with an exuberant pleasure, and will sacrifice their watch below in order to see him cut and carved. There is also much curiosity with regard to the contents of his interior. I once had for a shipmate a man who swore hard and fast that he once found in a shark a ship's chronometer that was still ticking. He was quite a truthful man too, but somehow I never believed that yarn. Of course a shark is one of the most ravenous and rapacious of fishes, and queer articles have undoubtedly been discovered in their stomachs.
Inside the one just caught there were two of the Captain's ducks, and not a morsel of anything else, which probably accounted for the greed with which he swallowed the four-pound chunk of briny pork. It is a tradition among sailors that sharks will not bite at a piece of beef, and I never heard of one being hooked with any bovine bait. In this the shark shows excellent taste and judgment, for the "salt junk" served out to seafarers is by no means a succulent or dainty dish. As a matter of fact, I have known a sailor to whittle out of it a fair model of the hull of a ship, and to dry it in the sun for two or three weeks, when it would come out for all the world as hard as a block of mahogany, which it resembled—and this too after the beef had been boiled for hours in the cook's coppers!
The Captain ordered the cook to cut off the fins and prepare them for his own particular use after the Chinese fashion, the almond-eyed Celestials esteeming them as an especial dainty. Then he carved two long cutlets from the back, which he also ordered to be cooked for his supper. The rest of the huge carcass he surrendered to the crew. The boatswain cut out the heart of the shark, which was still palpitating, and placed it in a tin dish. He told me it would continue to beat till sundown, when it would suddenly become motionless. I did not believe him, and told him so, but he prophesied truly. I watched that throbbing heart pretty closely for several hours. It beat firmly and regularly until the upper rim of the sun disappeared beneath the western horizon. Then it made a sudden stop, and became limp and pulseless. This may seem a yarn fit only to tell to the marines, but it is gospel truth on the word of a sailor. I have told the story to scientific men, but they have pooh-poohed at it, and declared it to have been impossible. But then it was not to be supposed that they would know anything about sharks, having got all their knowledge from musty books instead of from the sea itself. Old sailors who have crossed the line will, however, corroborate me as to this phenomenon.
The carpenter claimed the backbone, which he fashioned into a quite handsome walking-stick by impaling the finest sections of the spine on a slender bar of steel. And I may as well tell you that the "shark walking-canes" so frequently offered in South Street by impostors disguised as hardy mariners are as a rule made of sections of ox tails, prepared in a very cunning manner, and well calculated to deceive the inexperienced.
The Captain gave me the jaws, which were immense. I boiled them all night in a big kettle until all the flesh fell off them and they shone like ivory. I preserved them for many years as a souvenir of my first deep-sea voyage and of the first shark I had seen hooked.
The tail was nailed in triumph to the end of the flying jib-boom, replacing one of much smaller dimensions that had long braved both wind and weather. Sailors think that a shark's tail at the extreme end of a ship's "nose-pole" is the harbinger of good luck. While these things were being done the rest of the shark's carcass was thrown overboard for his mates to gorge upon. The only people aboard the Rajah that ate shark for supper that night were the Captain and the spinner of this yarn. The skipper feasted on the fins, followed by a big dish of cutlets. Of the last named delicacy I partook very sparingly, I warrant you, being actuated less by appetite than by curiosity. Not being an accomplished ichthyophagist like my Captain, I am forced to confess that I found his flesh to be not only flavorless but coarse.
It is an excellent thing for young men to be eager and enthusiastic in their pursuit of sport, but they should never allow their eagerness and enthusiasm to get the better of them. In a hotly contested game it is sometimes impossible for spectators to retain that composure which lends dignity to the Supreme Court, but, on the other hand, we should never allow our partisanship to carry us beyond the bounds of good behavior. I don't want to preach a sermon here on the etiquette of sport, because I am fully aware that my readers know just as much about the subject as I do; I merely want to urge them now to act on the grand stand, or along the ropes, or in the field itself just as in calmer moments they know they ought to act, and feel confident that they will.
In looking over a bundle of school papers the other day, I came across an editorial which started me to thinking about the behavior of spectators and players at school games, and I want to quote a portion of it. It does not matter what particular schools are under discussion, and so I have eliminated their names from the paragraph, substituting A and B, but otherwise the quotation is taken word for word. I did not write it myself.
There is one thing that we must condemn, and condemn very strongly, too, and that is the ungentlemanly conduct on the part of our boys, in jeering their opponents and trying to rattle their contestants. It is true that the "A" School started this, but this is no excuse for the boys to so far forget themselves and their school, and act like anything but gentlemen. The boys feel somewhat justified in the act, in that they did not begin jeering for quite a while after the "A" School had started, but at no time and for no cause are they excusable for forgetting that they are gentlemen. But to cap all this, a free fight was engaged in after the field day on some trivial cause. The less said about this the better, but we very strongly condemn the conduct of both the "B" and "A" schools in the field day on Saturday.
The occurrences referred to above took place at a track-athletic meeting, but they might just as well have happened at a football or a baseball game. The two schools are rivals in sport, and the single aim of each is to defeat the other. This spirit is commendable and should be encouraged, and I know of no one who will yell louder and longer for his own side than I will. But when it comes to jeering, we must draw the line. It is unsportsmanlike, and that means that it is ungentlemanly, cowardly, and indecent. We go into sport in order that the best man may win, and if the best man is on the other side, this may be a disappointment, but it is never a disgrace. If we start in to jeer at the best man's efforts we are openly trying to prevent him from winning, which is conduct directly opposite to the motives that led us to encourage the competition. It is as cowardly to jeer at an opponent as it is to adopt unfair means to defeat him: and any act calculated and intended to injure the chances of an antagonist is unsportsmanlike.
As to the particular case mentioned in the editorial, I can make no comment beyond what has already been said, except that fighting after a friendly contest is wholly irreconcilable to sport. I don't know, of course, whether there was an actual fight or not. The editor may have exaggerated; let us hope that he did. But to allow one's feelings to get the upper hand in sport is always a sign of weakness, and persons of such weak character as not to be able to restrain their passions should not indulge in sport. They do not belong among sportsmen.
There is nothing better than athletic contests to develop character and to teach a man to restrain himself. Aside from all ethics in the matter, and looking at the case purely from the point of view of securing advantage, it is better to be able to master one's passions and feelings. The man who loses his temper on the football field, and begins to "slug" his opponent, or to adopt mean methods of play, invariably weakens his own efforts, because he is giving more thought to his spite than he is to his game. Of two teams absolutely evenly matched in every physical respect, the team whose members keep cool and collected, and do not lose their tempers, is bound to win every time. It is so in everything; in business the same as in sport. Therefore, let me repeat that whereas enthusiasm and eagerness cannot be too highly commended, any display of ill-feeling or displeasure in sport cannot be too severely condemned.
At a number of schools it is the custom to allow instructors to play on the football and baseball teams, and these instructors frequently go into match games against other school teams. Such a system, of course, is bad; but it is fortunate that it is not countenanced at those institutions which hold a prominent place in the interscholastic world. It is mostly at small private schools that the teachers play, but the principle is the same. In the first place, a man who is old enough to be a professor is too old to play against boys. He outclasses them in experience and in strength, and it is unfair to pit such a player against a young athlete who has gone into sport for the sake of trying his skill against his equals. It is also discouraging to any team of young men to have to face opponents among whom there may be one or more college graduates. The mere presence of an older man on a boys' team serves to overawe the other side.
A Captain is perfectly justified in refusing to play against any school team that puts an instructor or professional trainer into the field with the school players. In fact, I should strongly urge every Captain of a school team to refuse to arrange games with any institution where the professor habit prevails, and to retire from any contest in which the opponents propose to play an older man. A few years ago there was a school team in Pennsylvania that won most of its baseball games simply because the pitcher was so much superior to any school pitcher the team ever met, and so much better an all-round player than any school-boy could be, that their opponents had no chance. That was not sport. There was no glory in those victories. The school team did not win. It was the professor against the field. He was a graduate of Williams College, I think, and had been the crack pitcher of his year among college baseball teams. But I think that he no longer performs for that school, and I believe that the boys there have a truer appreciation of the ethics of sport now, and fight their own battles on the diamond and on the gridiron.
It is all very proper for instructors who were athletes in college to give the scholars at the school they teach in the benefit of their experience by coaching the players, and even by going out on the field and playing against the first school team. But they should always play against the team, not with it, except for the purpose of demonstrating a play. By coaching the school players they are doing much good for the school team and for sport. But by joining the school players in games against other schools they do injury both to the players and to the cause of sport.
The absurd reports which appeared in some of the New York daily papers concerning the injury received by Captain Mynderse, of the Betts Academy team, in the recent game against the Berkeley School eleven, only serve to corroborate the statements made by this Department two weeks ago. Fortunately Mr. Ely, the coach of the Berkeley team, came out promptly with a statement to the effect that the boy was not at all seriously injured, and that he returned to his school the next day with his companion players, and was not, as reported, laid up in the hospital in a critical condition. In closing, Mr. Ely remarks: "Any team of school-boys who are properly looked after and cared for while playing the game, and who are physically fit to play it, need have no fear of doing so, nor need their parents have any fear that their sons will be permanently injured or incapacitated from pursuing a collegiate or business career from injurious effects sustained upon the football field." Mr. Ely is perfectly right; and let me add that boys who are not properly looked after while playing the game, or who are not physically fit to play it, should not be allowed on the field.
The most promising eleven in the New York League, up to date, is the Berkeley School team. Bayne has been made Captain instead of Irwin-Martin, and he will, no doubt, put more life and snap into his men. The change is a good one, for Martin is a good deal of a back number in scholastic athletics, and has thoroughly outgrown the class of players who properly belong on school teams. The protests against him on the score of age will probably again this year pop up with persistent regularity in the meetings of the I.S.A.A. Martin ought to get a certified copy of his birth certificate from the Bureau of Vital Statistics, and settle this disputed question once for all.
The league games began last week, and the schedule is divided into two sections, as the baseball schedule was: