So, when he found himself, during the melee, seated upon the kicking and roaring “Smoky’s” chest, he improved the opportunity by vigorously kneading handfuls of sand and soil into his adversary’s ears, eyes and mouth, and when “Smoky” got the proper leg hold and “turned” him, he fastened both hands in the Plushvelt hair and pounded the Plushvelt head against the lap of mother earth.  Of course, the strife was not incessantly active.  There were seasons when one sat upon the other, holding him down, while each blew like a grampus, spat out the more inconveniently large sections of gravel and earth and strove to subdue the spirit of his opponent with a frightful and soul-paralyzing glare.

At last, it seemed that in the language of the ring, their efforts lacked steam.  They broke away, and each disappeared in a cloud as he brushed away the dust of the conflict.  As soon as his breath permitted, Haywood walked close to “Smoky” and said: 

“Going to play ball?”

“Smoky” looked pensively at the sky, at his bat lying on the ground, and at the “leaguer” rounding his pocket.

“Sure,” he said, offhandedly.  “The ‘Yellowjackets’ plays the ’Long Islands.’  I’m cap’n of the ‘Long Islands.’”

“I guess I didn’t mean to say you were ragged,” said Haywood.  “But you are dirty, you know.”

“Sure,” said “Smoky.”  “Yer get that way knockin’ around.  Say, I don’t believe them New York papers about ladies drinkin’ and havin’ monkeys dinin’ at the table with ’em.  I guess they’re lies, like they print about people eatin’ out of silver plates, and ownin’ dogs that cost $100.”

“Certainly,” said Haywood.  “What do you play on your team?”

“Ketcher.  Ever play any?”

“Never in my life,” said Haywood.  “I’ve never known any fellows except one or two of my cousins.”

“Jer like to learn?  We’re goin’ to have a practice-game before the match.  Wanter come along?  I’ll put yer in left-field, and yer won’t be long ketchin’ on.”

“I’d like it bully,” said Haywood.  “I’ve always wanted to play baseball.”

The ladies’ maids of New York and the families of Western mine owners with social ambitions will remember well the sensation that was created by the report that the young multi-millionaire, Haywood Van Plushvelt, was playing ball with the village youths of Fishampton.  It was conceded that the millennium of democracy had come.  Reporters and photographers swarmed to the island.  The papers printed half-page pictures of him as short-stop stopping a hot grounder.  The Toadies’ Magazine got out a Bat and Ball number that covered the subject historically, beginning with the vampire bat and ending with the Patriarchs’ ball—­illustrated with interior views of the Van Plushvelt country seat.  Ministers, educators and sociologists everywhere hailed the event as the tocsin call that proclaimed the universal brotherhood of man.

One afternoon I was reclining under the trees near the shore at Fishampton in the esteemed company of an eminent, bald-headed young sociologist.  By way of note it may be inserted that all sociologists are more or less bald, and exactly thirty-two.  Look ’em over.