His right fist shot out in the direction of Dave's nose.
But the "poet" jumped nimbly aside, then his sturdy arms encircled "Little Bill's" waist, and, in an instant, the latter found himself on the ground.
"Let go—lemme be!" he cried.
But Dave was calmly sitting on his shoulder.
"Look out—help! You'll mash me ter nuthin'!" yelled Bill, frantically.
"Keep quiet," admonished Dave. "Lie still! A little conversation might be all right, but we don't want any shouting."
"Push that elephant off, somebody. I'm mashed to a pulp a'ready. Oh, now, Grimshaw, don't stand there like an idjit."
"We were talking," said Dave, pleasantly, "about keeping quiet. Now, if you promise to do what I say, an awful lot of trouble will be saved."
There was no help for it. Dave Brandon's hundred and seventy-two pounds held the belligerent ball player helpless, and Bill, furious and chagrined, was obliged to surrender.
"You ain't heard the last of this, you clumsy elephant!" he shouted, as he arose and edged away. "Don't you forget it!"