Immediately before us were the village baseball grounds. And now came the sportive youth of Fishampton and distributed themselves, shouting, about the diamond.
“There,” said the sociologist, pointing, “there is young Van Plushvelt.”
I raised myself (so far a cosycophant with Mary Ann) and gazed.
-Young Van Plushvelt sat upon the ground. He was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn 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.
+Young Van Plushvelt sat upon the ground. He was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weatherworn 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.
“That is he,” repeated the sociologist. If he had said “him” I could have been less vindictive.
On a bench, with an air, sat the young millionaire’s chum.
He was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, linen of the well-known “immaculate” trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat bamboo cane.