science of boxing and wrestling from his tutors, but these he discarded for the more instinctive methods of battle handed down by the cave-dwelling Van Plushvelts.
So, when he found himself, during the mêlée, 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, off-handedly. “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.”
