in it an element of force.  To be lifted off the ground by strong arms at the moment you are about to dust the home plate with your adversary is humiliating, but effective.  It gradually became apparent that a decision was a decision.  And one Saturday this inexplicable person carried in his hand a mysterious package which, when opened, revealed two pairs of diminutive boxing gloves.  They instantly became popular.

By the time they had made the accidental and somewhat astounding discovery that he was a parson, they were willing to overlook it; in view, perhaps, of his compensating accomplishments.  Instead of advising them to turn the other cheek, he taught them uppercuts, feints, and jabs, and on the proof of this unexpected acquaintance with a profession all of them openly admired, the last vestige of reserve disappeared.  He was accepted without qualifications.

II

Although the field to which they resorted was not in the most frequented section of the park, pedestrians often passed that way, and sometimes lingered.  Thus, towards the close of a certain Saturday in July, a young woman walked out of the wood path and stood awhile gazing intently at the active figure striding among the diminutive, darting forms.  Presently, with an amused expression, she turned her head to discover Mr. Bentley, who sat on a green bench under a tree, his hat and stick on the grass beside him.  She was unaware that he had been looking at her.

“Aren’t they having a good time!” she said, and the genuine thrill in her voice betrayed a rare and unmistakable pleasure.

“Ah,” replied Mr. Bentley, smiling back at her, “you like to see them, too.  Most persons do.  Children are not meant for the city, my dear young lady, their natural home is in the woods and fields, and these little fellows are a proof of it.  When they come out here, they run wild.  You perceive,” he added with a twinkle, as an expletive of unquestionable vigour was hurled across the diamond, “they are not always so polite as they might be.”

The young woman smiled again, but the look she gave him was a puzzled one.  And then, quite naturally, she sank, down on the grass, on the other side of Mr. Bentley’s hat, watching the game for a while in silence.

“What a tyrant!” she exclaimed.  Another uproar had been quelled, and two vigorously protesting runners sent back to their former bases.

“Oh, a benevolent tyrant,” Mr. Bentley corrected her.  “Mr. Hodder has the gift of managing boys,—­he understands them.  And they require a strong hand.  His generation has had the training which mine lacked.  In my day, at college, we worked off our surplus energy on the unfortunate professors, and we carried away chapel bells and fought with the townspeople.”

It required some effort, she found, to imagine this benevolent looking old gentleman assaulting professors.