Inasmuch as the only helps to be employed were the long, forked sticks carried in their hands, it will be seen that the game offered a boundless field for the roughest sort of play, mingled with no little dexterity and skill. Some swarthy-hued rascal, while on a dead run, would thrust the point of his stick under the crotch, and lifting it high above his head, start or rather continue with might and main toward his goal. At that time, as, indeed, at every minute, each young American was literally yelling like so many "wild Indians." Desperately as the youth ran, others more fleet of foot speedily overtook him, and one, reaching forward while going like a deer, lifted the crotch from the other stick, and circling gracefully about, sped for his own goal. But some youth at his heels leaped in air and with a sweep of his own stick struck the other and sent the crotch spinning and doubling through the air. A dozen other sticks were plunged after it, but it fell to the ground, and then the fight reached its climax. The parties became one wild, desperate, shouting, yelling, scrambling mob. Legs and arms seemed to be flying everywhere, and the wonder was that a score of limbs and necks were not broken. But it rarely hurts a boy to become hurt, and though bruises were plenty, no one suffered serious harm. After a few minutes' struggle, the crotch would be seen perched on the stick of one of the boys, who, fighting his way through the mob, ran with astonishing speed, with friends and foes converging upon him, and the certainty that he would be tripped and sent flying heels over head, before he could reach safety.