His Name Is Mud

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

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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.

" It looks more like a dog funeral than a dog fight," spoke up Seever, who was as usual at Shack's elbow.

" I wonder what his name is? " inquired an hysterical woman with a falsetto voice, who had appeared from I know not where, to ask this particularly interesting question.

" The dog's name ! " exclaimed Shack; " his name is ' Mud,' I guess, and no mistake." At which there was a half-hearted laugh, for the silent little chap on the pavement was a pathetic sight indeed. Somebody said, " Throw some water on him," and a bareheaded boy with a dinner-pail in his hand filled it at a horse-trough close by, and Shack took it and threw half its contents on the terrier.

No sooner had the water struck him than he gave a sneeze, like the hunchback in the " Arabian Nights " who had the unfortunate experience with the fish-bone, struggled to his feet, and after a somewhat unsteady circuit of the crowd in a vain effort to find his late antagonist, decided he had put him to flight, and began to bark triumphantly. Indeed, the " dying gladiator " showed every sign of being as good as new, with the exception of a little patch of red at his throat and a very muddy and bedraggled coat.

He went from one to another, wagging his stump of a tail frantically; and when the crowd broke up he dropped in at Sawyer's heels as if he had always belonged there. Shack allowed him to follow him home, and after a somewhat perfunctory effort to find an owner, he became Shack's dog from this time on, and a very lucky dog he was.

When " Mud," for Shack's random christening proved permanent, was treated to the twin luxuries of a bath and a comb, he

showed quite an attractive personality. That his coat of arms bore the " bar sinister," there was not the least doubt. His master declared there was no " blot on his scutcheon," and that he was a pure-blooded, wire-haired fox terrier; but his legs were too short, and his hair both too long and too silky for any such claim. Seever made out an imaginary pedigree for him, in which many canine aristocrats of different breeds appeared; but Marlowe declared he certainly must have numbered somewhere among his ancestors a very plebeian New England woodchuck.

Shack took a deal of chaffing over his " high-bred dog," but clung to him nevertheless, and Mud sprang into instantaneous popularity with the whole college. He had indeed a number of very valuable qualities, the most important of which was an undaunted courage. He was afraid of nothing that walked on four legs, or two either, for that matter. A dog of his own size or smaller he treated with an easy condescension. He looked upon anything larger as an enemy, and a very big dog he considered a personal insult, no matter how he behaved. I am inclined to think that the root of his anger was simply jealousy of superior inches. Whatever the motive was, however, Shack was kept busy pulling him out of the jaws of bigger dogs whenever he took him for an airing.

Mud could certainly not claim to be " no respecter of persons," for he had a very different manner with which to treat the gentleman from that he gave the laboring man. He was suspicious of the latter, even in his Sunday broadcloth, and when he met him clad in overalls and jumper he greeted him with a canine fusillade that was irrepressible. For rags and dirt, despite his very questionable past and decidedly suggestive name, Mud had a great antipathy. The sign " No admittance to beggars and pedlers," which decorated the lower hall, was quite unnecessary after Mud became a tenant, for he could pick these gentry out, no matter how skilfully disguised, and indeed showed qualities which would have made him invaluable in Scotland Yard.

He was forever on the move, and could tire out the most persistent visitor in any sort of a game. Mud's favorite was a sort of " rough and tumble " in which his opponent tried to bury him in the sofa pillows, and out of which he always emerged with every hair on end, his eyes like live coals, and his voice cracked from his efforts to make himself heard under a pyramid of cushions.

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Shack tried to keep his hand in for the " hammer throw," and practised rather intermittently when football gave him a few spare moments. Then was Mud in his particular glory. He would trot to the gymnasium at his master's heels, watch gravely from one of the long benches while Shack stripped and dressed, and then follow him into the middle of the field with an unmistakable air of pride.

When Shack took the hammer in hand Mud would begin to whimper, and as it whirled faster and faster round Shack's head, the howl grew more and more crescendo until the missile took to flight, with Mud after it so fast that it seemed as if he must sometime get the good sixteen pounds on the middle of his back.

So great was the danger that Shack hit upon the expedient of having Mud guard his sweater, which turned out to be the only way to keep the energetic little fellow still. It was surprising too what a changed dog he became when this responsibility was put upon him. He watched suspiciously every one who approached, and there was no friend near enough to be allowed to encroach on the forbidden ground occupied by Shack's old sweater. Marlowe tried to pull it away suddenly one day, and left a piece of his sleeve between Mud's sharp teeth as a memento of the encounter.

It was after two or three weeks' residence in Shack's hospitable quarters that Mud attained the zenith of his popularity and became mascot of the class of 188-. In fact, he bade fair to attain the very pinnacle of a dog's ambition, and to occupy the position of " luck bringer " to the whole college.

His predecessor had been a brindled bulldog of such extraordinary ugliness that it approached the beautiful, but he had fallen into disgrace after allowing the Freshmen to win the deciding game of baseball in the Spring, and the class had not filled the vacant place until Mud came to ornament it.

Shack failed this year to make the big team and played on his class eleven, where he was a bright particular star. In the first game with the Freshmen which they won, Shack at " centre," and Mud as mascot on the side lines, divided the honors, and the game went eighteen to nothing in their favor. After this Mud was solemnly installed in his position by Seever, who gave him a charge much like that to a newly installed minister, and to which Mud listened very seriously, with his head on one side, as he sat on a big chair with Shack's cap over his left eye.

It was hoped that Mud would furnish sumcient magic to make his class winner in the game with the Seniors, which would decide the college championship. When the day arrived he appeared at the gymnasium with an enormous ribbon at his throat and much pride in his breast. He was so distinctly elated that when Marlowe threw Shack's moleskin trousers at him and told him to " Shake 'em," he declined to descend to so undignified a sport.

No, his game was to be football that day.

It was late in October, and there was a thin mist threatening rain, through which they travelled to reach the gridiron on which the struggle was to be fought out. It was rather a rough field, with the trees all around it, and the ground was quite covered in places by the dead maple leaves. There was a mixed mob composed of the two classes; much enthusiasm and more noise.

Mud was installed in a place of honor on the side lines close to the centre, and for a throne was given Shack's old sweater and told to " Watch it."

Immediately across could be seen the Senior mascot, a very disreputable Billy goat, " bearded like the pard " and with only one horn. left. When Mud got a glimpse at his rival, nothing but a distinct sense of duty restrained him from an immediate

attack. When " William " was led, struggling violently, around the field just before the game started, Mud ran out on the long sleeve in a vain effort to reach his very disreputable- looking enemy, but even then could not be tempted to leave his precious charge.

He became very much excited when the men took their places for the " kick-off," and barked furiously at every " down " during the first " half." It was a hard old game, too, and one remembered long after. Class games are often more severe than contests with outside teams, for class rivalry is very strong, and there are not the same pains taken to restrain roughness. The Seniors kept bucking the line fiercely, and Shack at " centre" had all the fun he wanted holding his ground against repeated assaults. He was well backed up, however, by Marlowe on one side and Terry on the other, and the "half" ended with the score six to nothing in favor of the Sophs.

It was a proud moment indeed for little Mud when he was led around the field with the big ribbon on his neck, and so important did he feel that he did not even notice old " Billy," although he trotted close by him.

The Seniors started in with the same tactics when the whistle blew again, although they had not been at all successful. Not a " round the end" play did they make, and they were at last rewarded for their perseverance by knocking the wind out of Marlowe so completely that he was obliged to retire.

The man that took his place was sandy enough, and well up in the game; but he was too light to keep his feet on the soft ground, and it did not take the Seniors long to discover that a plunge at " right guard " was good for from two to five yards every time. Old Shack gave all the assistance he could, but he was fairly well employed in attending to his opposite, and the result was that the ball was worked slowly but steadily up the field with every prospect of being carried over the Sophs' line.

Nothing but the call of time could save them, and they lined up more and more slowly, struggling desperately and praying for the sound of the whistle. Down the lines the spectators followed, cheering hoarsely, and cutting up the soft turf like a huge drove of cattle. There were but two more minutes of play and a scant five yards to make. Old Shack had a cut over his right eye, and a little stream of blood trickled down his mud-stained cheek. He was steaming like a " yoke of oxen," and his canvas jacket was drenched with sweat, one stocking was down over his shoe, and a sleeve of his

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jersey was gone, showing the huge arm with its corded muscles.

He knew well enough that the "touchdown " must come unless something was done, but no good chance did he get until the ball was inside the five-yard line. " Four- twelve-twenty " called out the " quarter back," and the big " senior centre," crouching low against Shack's strong shoulder, snapped the ball back just as he had done a hundred times before that day. He got a bit too low, in fact, for Shack gave him a jerk, and before the little "quarter" could get the ball out of his hands Shack's big paw was on him, rolling him over like a kitten, and before he knew what had happened he had lost the ball, and Shack had it snugly tucked under his arm.

How the Sophs cheered, and when a moment later the whistle blew they would have shouldered Shack had he not made it impossible by lying flat on the muddy ground.

During these last five minutes Mud had been deserted and well-nigh forgotten, mascot though he was. The crowd had surged up the field where the fierce struggle was going on, and the little fellow was left all alone, with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts. He could look across to "Billy" on the other side, tied to a post, and alternately barked at him and whined for the friends who had left him.

Mud had no chains but those of duty, yet for him they were sufficient. He would very much have liked to follow the crowd, or better still to have had his own little game of football with " Billy" across the way, with neither an umpire nor a referee to keep account of distance or prevent rough play; but here was Shack's precious sweater, and here he was bound to stay.

It had been raining too for a little while, and the little fellow was getting cold and wet. He trotted around the narrow limits of his desert island, giving an occasional shiver of discomfort, and wishing in his heart that he was in his own snug place by Shack's warm fireside. The thought of Shack warmed him a bit, despite the cold, and he lay down again, waiting patiently for his master.

When the whistle blew he sprang to his feet, for he knew as well as anybody that the game was now over, and when he heard the shouts he gave a bark or two of triumph. His friends would be back soon, and might perhaps lead him around the field again. He could not see very well, for it was almost dark, and still the crowd lingered at the far end of the field. At last they began to come toward him; at first moving slowly, then more hurriedly at the thought of dinner, until some started to run, and there was a big rush for the narrow path which opened through the trees not far from where Mud stood.

The latter saw them coming, and he waved his stump of a tail and wiggled his little body as he thought of the hand touches, and the " Good old Mud " he was so soon to hear from Shack himself.

The crowd came like a wide, wide sea; but little Mud had no thought of danger until they were close to him. He saw the big wave about to roll over, he half turned as if for flight, and then, crouching low, he sprang at the first man who set foot on the sweater he was left to guard. He made no sound, and in the darkness and confusion the wave of humanity swept over him, and did not pause until it left him crushed and scarce alive. When Seever saw him as he followed the rushing mob, the little fellow was dragging himself painfully back to the big sweater and had a bit of gray cloth in his sharp teeth, which he had torn from the first intruder.

Shack was giving a shoulder to Marlowe when some one cried out, " Shack, old man, Mud 's hurt; " and he left Marlowe in an instant, and was off like a shot with a dozen men after him.

When they reached the crowd that clung in a dense circle, much as on the first night, they found Mud lying on the sweater, his poor little body a shapeless thing.

Shack bent over him with a groan, then lifted him tenderly in his arms, and for a moment there came in the little fellow's fast- glazing eyes the light of recognition. He licked the big hand that held him so carefully, shivered a little, crept close to Shack's stained jacket, trembled a little longer, and then lay still at last on Shack's broad breast.