There is always a "post mortem" atmosphere about Fall track athletics.
Baseball shows a bit more life, for now the ambitious Freshman receives his "trying out" and struggles valiantly to catch the critical eye of the Captain, in search of new material for the "Nine."
The only "real thing" is football, which reigns supreme until Thanksgiving Day dethrones him.
This period is the most trying one of all the year to a trainer. One after another of his men on whom he depends for points on field and track are drafted for the "gridiron," until there is scarcely one left except the second-raters, whom he would gladly spare. Try to imagine my feelings as I watch a football game from the side lines, when Hopkins, my only ten one-fifth man is picked out of the bottom of a "scrimmage" with one of his precious legs twisted, or Baily retires with a dislocated shoulder,—Baily, who alone can be depended upon for any distance with the "shot." Shaw pulls his sweater over his head and takes Hopkins' place at "half back," Marlowe drops his blanket and fills the gap at "tackle" caused by Baily's retirement, and the game goes on just as before. No one seems to care much, but I think of the coming Spring and wonder what kind of a showing we are destined to make.
I had seen a short practice game between the second and third elevens, and had watched a few men listlessly circling the track, until the gathering dusk warned me that it was time for dinner. I stopped a moment at "Conner's" to arrange for some shoes for the team, and was half-way across the square when I saw ahead of me, and in the middle of the street, quite a little crowd, from the centre of which came a confused jumble of barks, growls, yelps, and howls, the sure sign of a canine disagreement. Now, of course, I did not countenance any such low sport as a battle between two street curs, but I elbowed my way through, as I am afraid most men would have done, and I am not quite sure that my motive was wholly the separation of the combatants.
I found them to be a very large and very good-natured St. Bernard, not quite full grown, and a very small and intensely angry terrier, weighing about as much as his opponent's left leg. Indeed it was not, strictly speaking, a fight at all, if it takes more than one to make a fight, which is I believe an accepted axiom. The terrier, a mixture of hair, mud, and impotent rage, would scramble over the wet pavement and make a desperate spring at the big St. Bernard's throat, either to be avoided by a lift of the head or a turn of the body, and the little fellow would roll over and over, then gather himself up and attack his good-natured foe again with renewed virulence.
It was really very funny, for neither of them was getting hurt, and when at last the big fellow, in sheer desperation, placed his paw on his assailant and held him down struggling vainly, it caused a hearty laugh from all the crowd. The St. Bernard looked doubtfully at us, very much as if to say, "Is not this a very awkward position for a gentleman to find himself in?" and at last, seeing a gap in the crowd, he suddenly lifted his paw and tried to make good his escape. In this he nearly succeeded, but was not quite quick enough, for his crazy little assailant caught him by the first joint of his hind leg, and buried his sharp little teeth deep in the cartilages. This was really too much for the big fellow's temper, already sadly tried, and turning with a howl of pain, he seized his vicious little enemy in his big jaws, shook him a second or two fiercely, and then dropped him on the pavement. It was all over before we could interfere, and the big fellow's anger passed as quickly as it came.
He saw at once that something was wrong, for the ragged little body lay on its side entirely motionless, with the exception of a spasmodic twitching of the legs. He sniffed at him carefully, then gave us a look of reproach, at which I confess I felt ashamed, and trotted sadly away.
It was just at this moment that a number of the football men appeared, led by big Shack Sawyer, who quickly elbowed his way to the inner circle by my side, demanding "What's the row, Professor?"
"Only a little dog fight," I answered, a bit shocked at the sudden transformation from comedy to tragedy.