His Name Is Mud

Fall track athletics always has a kind of post-mortem atmosphere. Baseball is a bit more lively, for it is then that the ambitious Freshman gets his tryout and struggles hard to catch the critical eye of the captain, who is always looking for new material for the nine. The only real thing is football, which rules supreme until Thanksgiving Day dethrones it.

This is the most trying time of the year for a trainer. One after another, the men he depends on for points in field and track events are drafted for the gridiron, until he is left with scarcely anyone except second-raters he would gladly spare. Imagine my feelings as I watch a football game from the sidelines when Hopkins, my only ten-and-one-fifth-second man, is pulled out of the bottom of a scrimmage with one of his precious legs twisted, or when Baily, the only one who can be depended on for any distance with the shot, retires with a dislocated shoulder. Shaw pulls his sweater over his head and takes Hopkins' place at halfback; Marlowe drops his blanket and fills the gap at tackle left 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 will 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 it was time for dinner. I stopped a moment at Conner's to arrange for some shoes for the team and was halfway across the square when I saw ahead of me, in the middle of the street, quite a little crowd from which came a confused jumble of barks, growls, yelps, and howls—the sure sign of a dogfight. Of course, I did not approve of such low sport, 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 entirely to separate the combatants.

The fighters were a very large and good-natured St. Bernard, not quite fully grown, and a very small and intensely angry terrier weighing about as much as his opponent's left leg. It was not really a fight at all, if it takes more than one to make a fight, which I believe is 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. The big fellow would avoid him with a lift of his head or a turn of his body, and the little dog would roll over and over, then gather himself and attack again with renewed fury.

It was really very funny, because neither was getting hurt. Finally, in sheer desperation, the big fellow placed his paw on his assailant and held him down, struggling vainly, and that caused a hearty laugh from the crowd. The St. Bernard looked at us doubtfully, as if to say, "Isn't this an awkward position for a gentleman to find himself in?" Then, seeing a gap in the crowd, he suddenly lifted his paw and tried to escape. 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 teeth deep in the cartilage. This was too much for the big fellow's temper, which had already been badly tried. Turning with a howl of pain, he seized his vicious little enemy in his big jaws, shook him for a second or two, 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 had come.

He saw at once that something was wrong, for the ragged little body lay on its side, entirely motionless except for a spasmodic twitching of the legs. He sniffed at him carefully, then gave us a look of reproach that made me feel ashamed, and trotted sadly away.

Just then a number of the football men appeared, led by big Shack Sawyer, who quickly elbowed his way to the inner circle beside me, asking, "What's the row, Professor?"

"Only a little dogfight," I answered, a bit shocked by the sudden change from comedy to tragedy.

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

"I wonder what his name is?" asked a hysterical woman with a high-pitched voice, who had appeared from nowhere to ask this particularly interesting question.

"The dog's name?" exclaimed Shack. "His name is Mud, I guess, and no mistake." There was a half-hearted laugh, for the silent little chap on the pavement was a pathetic sight. Someone said, "Throw some water on him," and a bareheaded boy with a dinner pail filled it from a horse trough nearby. Shack took it and threw half the water on the terrier.

No sooner had the water struck him than he sneezed, 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 opponent, decided that he had put him to flight and began to bark triumphantly. Indeed, the dying gladiator seemed as good as new, apart from a little reddish patch at his throat and a very muddy, bedraggled coat.

He went from one to another, wagging his stump of a tail frantically. When the crowd broke up, he fell in at Sawyer's heels as if he had always belonged there. Shack let him follow him home, and after a somewhat half-hearted effort to find an owner, Mud became Shack's dog from that moment on—and a very lucky dog he was.

When Mud, for Shack's casual christening proved permanent, was treated to the twin luxuries of a bath and a comb, he turned out to be quite attractive. There was no doubt that his coat of arms bore the bar sinister. 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 too long and silky for any such claim. Seever made up an imaginary pedigree for him, with various canine aristocrats among his ancestors, but Marlowe insisted that somewhere his line must have included a very plebeian New England woodchuck.

Shack was teased a good deal about his "high-bred dog," but he stuck with him, and Mud quickly became popular with the whole college. He had a number of valuable qualities, the most important of which was undaunted courage. He was afraid of nothing that walked on four legs—or two, for that matter. A dog his own size or smaller he treated with easy condescension; anything larger he regarded as an enemy, and a very big dog he took as a personal insult, no matter how it behaved. I suspect the root of his anger was jealousy of superior height. Whatever the motive, Shack was kept busy pulling him out of bigger dogs' jaws whenever he took him for an airing.

Mud could hardly claim to be "no respecter of persons," for he treated a gentleman very differently from a laboring man. He was suspicious of the latter even in Sunday broadcloth, and when he met him in overalls and a jumper, he greeted him with an irrepressible canine fusillade. Despite his questionable past and suggestive name, Mud had a great aversion to rags and dirt. The sign "No admittance to beggars and peddlers" in the lower hall became unnecessary after Mud took up residence, for he could single out such people no matter how well disguised, and indeed showed skills that would have made him invaluable at Scotland Yard.

He was always on the move and could tire out the most persistent visitor in any game. His favorite was a rough-and-tumble in which his opponent tried to bury him in sofa pillows, and from which he always emerged with his hair standing on end, eyes like live coals, and his voice hoarse from barking under a pile of cushions.

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

When Shack took the hammer, Mud would start to whimper, and as it whirled faster and faster around Shack's head, his howl grew louder and louder until the missile took flight, with Mud chasing after it so fast that it seemed he must inevitably get the good sixteen pounds on the middle of his back.

The danger was so great that Shack came up with the idea of having Mud guard his sweater, which turned out to be the only way to keep the energetic little fellow still. It was surprising how changed he became under this responsibility. He watched suspiciously anyone who came near, and no friend was close enough to be allowed to encroach on the forbidden ground around Shack's old sweater. One day Marlowe tried to snatch it away, and left a piece of his sleeve between Mud's sharp teeth as a souvenir of the encounter.

After two or three weeks of residence in Shack's hospitable quarters, Mud reached the peak of his popularity and became mascot of the class of 188-. In fact, he seemed destined to attain the very pinnacle of a dog's ambition and become a "luck bringer" to the whole college.

His predecessor had been a brindled bulldog so ugly that it was almost beautiful, but he had fallen into disgrace after allowing the Freshmen to win the deciding baseball game in the spring, and the class had not filled the vacancy until Mud arrived.

That year Shack failed to make the varsity team and played on his class eleven, where he was a star. In the first game against the Freshmen, which they won, Shack at center and Mud as mascot on the sidelines shared the honors, and the game ended eighteen to nothing in their favor. After that, Mud was solemnly installed in his position by Seever, who gave a charge much like one to a newly installed minister, and Mud listened very seriously, head cocked, sitting in a big chair with Shack's cap over one eye.

It was hoped that Mud would bring enough magic to make his class champion in the game against the Seniors, which would decide the college title. On the day of the game, Mud appeared at the gymnasium with a huge ribbon at his throat and great pride in his heart. He was so elated that when Marlowe threw Shack's moleskin trousers at him and told him to "shake 'em," he declined to descend to such an undignified sport. No, that day he was playing football.

It was late October, with a thin mist threatening rain, and they traveled through it to the field where the struggle was to take place. The field was rather rough, surrounded by trees, and in places covered by dead maple leaves. A mixed crowd of the two classes had gathered, with much enthusiasm and more noise.

Mud was installed in a place of honor on the sidelines near the center, and as a throne he was given Shack's old sweater, with orders to "watch it." Immediately across the field could be seen the Senior mascot, a very disreputable Billy goat, bearded like a pard and with only one horn left. When Mud caught sight of his rival, nothing but a sense of duty kept him from attacking on the spot. When "William" was led, struggling violently, around the field just before the game, Mud ran out on his long leash in a vain attempt to reach his scruffy enemy, but even then he could not be tempted to leave his precious charge.

He became very excited when the players took their positions for the kickoff and barked furiously at every down during the first half. It was a hard, old game, one to be remembered. Class games are often more severe than contests with outside teams, because class rivalry runs high and less effort is made to restrain roughness. The Seniors kept bucking the line fiercely, and Shack at center had all the excitement he wanted trying to hold his ground against repeated assaults. He was well backed up by Marlowe on one side and Terry on the other, and the half ended with the score six to nothing in favor of the Sophomores.

It was a proud moment for little Mud when he was led around the field with the big ribbon around his neck. He felt so important that he didn't even notice old Billy, even though he trotted right by him.

The Seniors began the second half with the same tactics, though they had not been successful. They made no end runs and were finally rewarded for their persistence by knocking the wind out of Marlowe so completely that he had to leave the game. His replacement was tough enough and knew the game, but he was too light to keep his footing on the soft ground, and the Seniors soon found that a plunge at right guard was good for two to five yards every time. Shack gave all the help he could, but he was fully occupied with his own opponent, and the result was that the ball was worked slowly but steadily up the field, with every prospect of being carried over the Sophomore line.

Only the final whistle could save them. They lined up more and more slowly, struggling desperately and praying for the sound. The spectators followed along the sidelines, cheering hoarsely and churning the soft turf like a herd of cattle. There were only two minutes left and a scant five yards to go. Shack had a cut over his right eye, and a thin stream of blood trickled down his mud-stained cheek. He was steaming like a yoke of oxen, his canvas jacket soaked with sweat, one stocking down around his shoe, and a sleeve of his jersey missing, exposing his muscular arm.

He knew a touchdown was inevitable unless something was done. He got his chance when the ball was inside the five-yard line. "Four-twelve-twenty," called the quarterback, and the big Senior center, crouching low against Shack's strong shoulder, snapped the ball back as he had done a hundred times that day. He got a little too low, and Shack gave him a jerk. Before the little quarterback could get the ball away, Shack's big hand was on him, rolling him over like a kitten. The ball came loose, and Shack scooped it up, tucking it under his arm.

How the Sophomores cheered! When the whistle blew a moment later, they would have carried Shack off the field, but he made that impossible by lying flat on the muddy ground.

During those last five minutes, Mud had been left alone, almost forgotten, mascot though he was. The crowd had surged up the field where the fierce struggle raged, and the little dog sat by himself, with nothing to do but think. He could look across at Billy, tied to a post, and he barked at him and whined for his friends who had gone.

Mud had no chains but those of duty, yet they were enough. He would have liked to follow the crowd, or even better, have his own little game of football with Billy, with no umpire or referee to stop rough play. But there was Shack's sweater, and there he had to stay.

It had started to rain again, and the little dog was getting cold and wet. He trotted around the small area of his lonely post, shivering, longing for his warm spot by Shack's fireside. But the thought of Shack warmed him a little, and he lay down again, waiting patiently.

When the whistle blew, he sprang to his feet, knowing that the game was over, and when he heard the shouts, he gave a few triumphant barks. His friends would be back soon and might lead him around the field again. It was almost dark, and still the crowd lingered at the far end. At last they began to come toward him, slowly at first, then faster, until some started to run, and there was a great rush for the narrow path through the trees not far from where Mud stood.

He saw them coming and wagged his stump of a tail, wiggled his body, thinking of the pats and the "Good old Mud" he would hear from Shack.

The crowd came like a wide sea. Little Mud had no thought of danger until they were close. He saw the big wave about to roll over him, half turned as if to flee, then crouched low and sprang at the first man who stepped on the sweater he guarded. He made no sound, and in the darkness and confusion the wave swept over him. It did not pause until it had left him crushed and barely alive. Seever, following the mob, saw the little fellow drag himself painfully back to the sweater, clutching a piece of gray cloth in his sharp teeth—torn from the first intruder.

Shack was helping Marlowe when someone shouted, "Shack, old man, Mud's hurt!" He dropped Marlowe instantly and ran, with a dozen men after him.

They found a dense circle around something on the ground, much like that first night. Mud lay on the sweater, his poor little body a shapeless mass.

Shack bent over him with a groan, then lifted him gently. For a moment, in the little dog's fading eyes, there was a flicker of recognition. He licked the big hand that held him, shivered slightly, crept close to Shack's muddy jacket, trembled for a while longer, and then lay still on Shack's broad chest.