It was a mob, a fearful mob, but a mob
apparently with a vigorous and well-defined purpose. It was a mob that
screamed and howled, and kicked, and yelled, and shouted, and perspired,
and squirmed, and wriggled, and pushed, and threatened, and poured
itself all seemingly upon some central object. It was a mob that had an
aim, that was determined to accomplish that aim, even though the whole
azure expanse of sky fell upon them. It was a mob with set muscles,
straining like whip-cords, eyes on that central object and with heads
inward and sturdy legs outward, like prairie horses reversed in a
battle. The cheerers and hat throwers on the outside were mirthful, but
the mob was not; it howled, but howled without any cachinnation; it
struggled for mastery. Some fell and were trampled over, some weaker
ones were even tossed in the air, but the mob never deigned to trouble
itself about such trivialities. It was an interesting, nervous whole,
with divers parts of separate vitality.
In alarm I looked about for the principal. He was standing at a safe
distance with his hands in his pockets watching the seething mass with a
broad smile. At sight of my perplexed expression some one was about to
venture an explanation, when there was a wild yell, a sudden vehement
disintegration of the mass, a mighty rush and clutch at a dark object
bobbing in the air--and the mist cleared from my intellect--as I
realized it all--football.
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