The uproar increased. Those in the forward chairs craned their necks.
Some stood up to learn what the matter might be. Others mounted their
seats. A thousand absurd conjectures passed from mouth to mouth.
"Somebody's dropped dead!"
"Sit down in front! Sit down!"
"What's the matter?"
"Where are the police?"
"Put him out!"
"A fight!"
Blue helmets moved toward the scene of action slowly. Mr. Rudolph
still paused and moistened his lips impatiently. Men can give and take
away popularity in the same breath, but a dog fight is arranged by
occult forces, and must, like opportunity, be taken when it comes. We
are educated to accept oratory, but we need no education in the matter
of a dog fight. This red corpuscle was transmitted to us from the
Stone Age, and the primordial pleasures alone resist enlightenment.
Two bulldogs, one tan, the other white, were fighting desperately,
near the exits. In between human legs, under chairs, this way and
that, snarling, snapping, dragging. Men called out, kicked, tried to
use canes and umbrellas, and some burned matches. The dogs were
impervious.
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