THE passionate interest with which Americans followed the Dempsey-Carpentier fight is but another illustration of the importance which they attach to sport. We shall never understand their national character fully until we comprehend this passion.

It is based upon love of 'fair play,' though the game may be killing a man

a sport governed by its own frontier code. The very stage-robber roughs, and the bullies who pioneered the Far West, obeyed certain laws of their trade, designed to give every man a fair chance. That once granted, individual initiative, courage, shrewdness, and daring had free rein. The dead were buried where they fell, and the sheriff's jurisdiction ceased.

Americans inherit from their heroic frontier traditions, which all admire and many still regret, both reverence for fair play and passion for sport.

Though this nation did enter the war in the service of a great ideal,- for the Yankees are incorrigible idealists, another important motive, a controlling motive, was their love of sport.

I recall what a San Francisco journalist said to me in 1915, when I remarked upon the number of pro-Germans in the West: 'When we see Germany, with all the world against her, holding her own and even driving back the Russians, we feel that she plays the game well and applaud her skill. If the man on the street is pro-German, it is because of his sporting instinct.' It was sporting sentiment, again, that made the Americans almost unanimous

for war as soon as they saw Germany breaking the rules of the game with her submarines.

An American street lad cannot insult another worse than by calling him no sport. A boy who will meekly tolerate almost any other charge will instantly resent this one with his fists.

So the taste for sport, acquired at a tender age, continues throughout life. Everywhere in America you see athletic fields, tennis courts, and golf links. They are attached to factories, and occupy public parks. Operatives flock to them as soon as their work is over, and generally spend Saturday afternoons at such games. About a quarter of the forty square miles of park around Chicago is used for baseball fields, golf links, tennis courts, and other athletic objects. Matches between towns, factories, schools, and cities, always draw great crowds, who follow them with passionate interest.

One day I chanced to see the following incident in Chicago. A baseball game was being played in a field surrounded by a high fence. At one place a board was missing. A gigantic policeman - all policemen in Chicago are giants had been stationed at the last moment to keep small boys from crawling through, or watching the game from this opening. However, this policeman was an American, and naturally himself a sport-lover. Probably he had performed his duties conscientiously at first; but who can resist the temptation of the national sport? When I saw him, the guardian of the law presented but

an enormous back to the outer world. He stood motionless, gazing through the aperture which he was stationed to protect, utterly absorbed in the game. His corpulence encouraged him to straddle a little as he leaned against the fence. A young lad had profited by the situation to establish himself directly behind the officer of the law. So there were the two, both wrapped in the game, both howling enthusiastically at every good play the policeman apparently quite oblivious of the youngster between his legs.

An even more significant incident, pointing the same moral, lately occurred at a county town where the 'Yankees' of New York were training. A local nine defeated the distinguished visitors by a score of one to nothing, and the little village went wild over the achievement. Its citizens swept across the diamond, a cheering, shrieking mob, and, forming an impromptu procession, continued the celebration into the town itself.

While neighbor was congratulating neighbor upon the glorious victory, a little group of men was discovered anxiously inquiring for the whereabouts of Albert T. Lyons, the town constable. Now Albert T. Lyons had been prominently visible only a few moments before, in the front row on the grandstand. He had shouted and howled as loudly as the most patriotic of his fellow townsmen. But no one knew where he went when the game was over. Those best informed, or pretending to be so, assured the solicitous inquirers that he had gone with the crowd to celebrate down-town. The truth was he had been completely lost in the shuffle.

Soon the ball field was deserted except for the little group of distracted men hunting for Albert T. Lyons. These persistent seekers were no other than the prisoners of the county jail, eighteen in all, who had been among

the most interested spectators of the game. It later developed that these prisoners had no intention originally of leaving their involuntary domicile for the afternoon. But fate had disposed otherwise. Sheriff Wilson, who was in charge of the jail, noticing that schools, stores, and factories had closed, to let every good townsman see the local champions measure their prowess against the famous visitors, left Albert T. Lyons, the local constable, to guard the prisoners for the remainder of the day. Then, donning his best uniform, he joined his fellow citizens at the ball field.

However, Lyons, after watching the long procession of his neighbors and acquaintances pass the gates of his bastille, could not master his intense interest in the coming contest. First he was melancholy, then restless, then impatient. Finally, he made up his mind. He decided that it was his duty also to be present at that game; and, since he could not leave his prisoners, he would take them with him. Lining them up in a column of fours, he gave the order: 'Forward-march!' and thus they appeared at the historic contest.

However, in the excitement that followed, Albert T. Lyons completely forgot his charges. The prisoners, in their turn, forgot Albert T. Lyons. Neither the one nor the other had eyes or voice except for the great event before them. The constable found himself, without knowing just how, at the sheriff's side. The two men greeted each other, two souls with but a single thought, two pairs of lungs that howled as one. When the game was over, both the sheriff and the constable forgot entirely their prisoners. Beside themselves with enthusiasm and civic pride, they hastened to town with the rest.

Now, when the eighteen prisoners found that they had been deserted, they took counsel among themselves. After some deliberation they decided

to march down town and seek their guardian, Albert T. Lyons, or, if he could not be found, the sheriff.

But the town was thronged with excited people. The prisoners marched up and down the main street in file. In vain they questioned passers-by. Breaking up into detachments, they even hunted through the side streets. Albert T. Lyons was not to be found. Supper-hour was drawing near. Their unwonted exercise had sharpened their appetites. They deliberated anew, and decided unanimously what their next move should be. Doubling their pace, they hastened back to the jail, with the hope of finding supper ready, whether the constable was there or not.

But here a new disappointment awaited them. The jail was locked. They rang the bell, they pounded, they investigated. No reply. They took counsel anew. Two expert lock-pickers were invited to exhibit their talents. Without waiting to be asked a second time, they took off their coats and proceeded to attack the lock. Did they lack proper tools? Had they lost their skill in jail? Whatever the cause, the door resisted. Finally, the professional lock-pickers, humiliated and defeated, and scoffed at by their hungry fellow prisoners, gave up the job. Then a veteran second-story man volunteered to climb a waterspout and enter by an upper window. But the window resisted as obstinately as the door, so he, too returned defeated.

All this time the savory odors of broiling beefsteak and boiling coffee were wafted to their nostrils from inside, whetting their appetites and deepening despair. Happily, just at that moment the door opened. Mrs. Draper, the cook, summoned from the kitchen by the noise and prudently armed with the poker, stood in the opening. Her famished boarders swept past her like a single man, eager to

make up for lost time. Scarcely had a second helping been served all-round, when Constable Albert T. Lyons, and Sheriff Wilson arrived, out of breath, worried, and apologetic. However, apologies were unnecessary. They were joyously welcomed, and everyone talked at once of the glorious victory.

Are you waiting for a moral? Do you fancy that the negligent constable was dismissed? Was the careless sheriff replaced, or even reprimanded? Not at all. It was a question of sport, so no explanations were needed. In fact, the town rather prided itself on having such patriotic guardians of the law.

Naturally, the automobile has added another new sporting element to American life. Arrests and fines for speeding do not have the slightest effect upon the mania for taking risks. People are as proud of their mounting lists of fines, as they are of their speed records.

A couple of years ago the Long Island Railway Company conceived the idea of substituting light, artistic gates for the heavy barriers previously used at grade crossings. The next year, however, it had to replace the old ponderous contrivances. The official reason for this backward step was that automobilists would run through the light gates as a sport, in order to cross the track just ahead of trains. The reports specified six cases in one week where people had voluntarily taken this risk.

Where such sports are the vogue, it is not strange that horse-racing should seem dull. Aeroplane races will doubtless become popular as soon as means are devised for following them throughout their course. During the interval, the most popular races are perhaps those between the crews of the great universities. The most largely attended is the Harvard-Yale boat race, which is rowed on a pretty river at New London.

On the day of the contest this little port is almost lost in a cloud of white sails, gay banners, and pennants. It is the centre of a pandemonium of whistles, sirens, music, and cheering crowds. Slender racing shells, motor-boats, and yachts dart hither and thither. The whole course is a focus of intense activity. Two trains, exactly alike, are waiting on the opposite banks of the river. Each consists of sixty cars, provided with awning-covered seats for spectators. The one on the right bank is for Yale supporters; the one on the left for those of Harvard. Each ticket indicates the seat reserved for its possessor. Everything is arranged beforehand. In spite of the immense throng, there is no confusion. The organization is perfect.

Just before the start the waterside is a rendezvous of elegance and beauty. Rarely does one see in such short time and limited space so many gracious, graceful, pretty girls, with admirable and apparently natural-complexions. Each wears the color of her favorite university: blue for Yale, and crimson for Harvard. Old graduates meet each other for the first time in ten or twenty years. There is a hurly-burly of glad greetings. But they refrain from personal remarks and inquiries. They are glad to see each other; but their only thought is of the race. Here are two elderly gentlemen, each remarkably well groomed, who perceive each other from a distance. They run up, clasp hands, and circle round in a sort of joyous war dance. Are they crazy men? By no means. They are simply two old Harvard alumni who have just discovered each other.

Hucksters' carts and boys with baskets circulate through the crowd, selling peanuts, cigars, chewing-gum, and a multitude of strange refreshments of every hue of the rainbow. Add to all this color and movement the dazzling American sunlight, and you

have an incomparable picture of life and gayety.

The starting-hour approaches. The bells of the two locomotives begin to ring. Conductors shout, 'All aboard!' The whole world hastens to its allotted place.

Slowly we begin to move. Hundreds of cinema cameras are trained on us. They are posted everywhere: on moving automobiles, on high scaffoldings, on lamp-posts, and on a lofty tank.

At last we leave the city, thread the suburbs, and come to the open country. At this point an immense steel bridge joins the opposite banks. We halt in the middle. Below us, as far as the eye can reach, the river reveals two long avenues of masts. Vessels of every size and form, yachts, steamers, schooners, countless motor-boats, yawls, and barges, each loaded to the limit with bright-faced people, mostly dressed in white, are ranged along the course. Soon we detect the slender racing shells deliberately taking their positions beneath the bridge. The banks on either side are not black, but white, with spectators. The course is directly up-stream from this point.

Now the shells are in position, each held at its proper point by the outstretched arms of the trainers. There is a moment's pause, an impressive silence. The sharp crack of a revolver, and then, with a single impulse, with a perfectly even sweep of the oars, the two shells shoot away.

Yale speedily takes the lead. The Harvard crew rows with long 'classic' strokes. Yale, on the other hand, has adopted this year a short quick stroke, which comes, according to rumor, from Australia. It certainly proves the better at the start.

From the moment the race begins, a constant roar follows the contesting crews from either shore. On the right, everyone is shouting: 'Harvard! Har

vard! Harvard!' in deafening unison. Sometimes the noise dies down for a moment, only to rise higher than ever. From the other side we hear the rival shouters with their constant staccato: 'Yale! Yale! Yale!' Then there ascends for a moment, above the other clamor, a weird sort of chant; apparently the battle-hymn of the rival university, to which Harvard replies with its own university song.

The train keeps just abreast of the rowers. We see on the opposite bank the apparently endless train bearing the Yale crowd. The rival shell is decidedly in the lead. The bodies of its crew bend back and forth in quick unison, like the threads on a spindle; while the Harvard men, with their more deliberate rhythm, seem a little surer of themselves. They give the impression of greater ease. Nevertheless, at the end of the quarter, Yale is three lengths in the lead.

The Harvard men redouble their cheering. It is as if they would force their shell ahead by mere will-power. For a moment we lose sight of the contestants behind some yacht or threedecked river steamer, whose dense crowd of passengers is likewise shouting and cheering on the contestants by waving handkerchiefs, umbrellas, hats, and arms. These thousands of spectators are like one person with a single thought, and that thought expressed in noise.

During the next quarter the distance between the two shells increases. Yale keeps well in the lead. The moment comes when there seems no hope for Harvard. Just then, when the cheering from our side begins to die away, we detect a lessening in the distance between the contesting crews. At first we hesitate, lest we have been deceived. Then our impression is confirmed. The boats are closer together. Harvard is picking up. There are only two lengths between them only one and a half.

It is beyond my powers of description to give any idea of the roars of enthusiasm, the shouts, the howls, the hurrahs, the open mouths, dilated eyes, contorted forms, clenched fists rising and falling in cadence with the 'Rah! Rah! Rah!' of the wild Indians who surround us. It would take a Dostoievski or a Dante to portray that— and he would fail.

By this time only three quarters of a length separates the two shells. Whistles toot and bellow in every pitch, sirens roar in agonizing shrieks. The white surf of human beings on either bank rolls and sways in one great climax of noise and movement. The sharp reports of revolvers and the booming of cannon punctuate the din.

We are drawing near the end of the course. The double row of vessels becomes more compact. The train makes a half-circle round the little bay, and stops. Here the boats are so close together that they form a solid mass. A perfect thicket of spars, awnings, smoke-stacks entirely cuts off our view of the water. We lose sight of the contestants for a moment at this point. When we next see them, the distance between them has increased. On our side there is a moment's hesitation, an instant of hope. We imagine we see the Harvard colors in the leading boat. But it is only the illusion of an instant. Yale leads! They are now separated by seven lengths. The race is over. Yale wins.

While the crews, exhausted by their last spasmodic effort, sink back in the bottoms of their shells, a thunder of cheers, punctuated by revolver-shots, cannon-shots, and other detonations, surpassing even the pandemonium along the course, rolls over to us from the opposite bank, as if to crush us under an avalanche of sound.

Meanwhile on our side the enthusiasm of a moment before has given place