Down Persimmon Street (there''s never tree north of Hagerstown, Md.) came from the village "Smoky" Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. "Smoky" was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weather-worn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the "serviceable" brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. "Smoky" carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.
"Going to play ball?" he asked.
"Smoky''s" eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled scrutiny.
"Me?" he said, with deadly mildness; "sure not. Can''t you see I''ve got a divin'' suit on? I''m goin'' up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.④本④作④品④由④思④兔④網④提④供④線④上④閱④讀④
"Excuse me," said Haywood, with the insulting politeness of his caste, "for mistaking you for a gentleman. I might have known better."
"How might you have known better if you thought I was one?" said "Smoky," unconsciously a logician.
"By your appearances," said Haywood. "No gentleman is dirty, ragged and a liar."
"Smoky" hooted once like a ferry-boat, spat on his hand, got a fi