From the March 23, 1934 edition of the Vineyard Gazette:

Millions of readers of the Vineyard Gazette, asleep in ten hundred times ten hundred homes, stirred restlessly and uneasily in their slumbers, as if disturbed by cosmic mutterings, songbirds fell from their nests (for miles around) at the same vibrations, and little Arbuthnot Appleby, in his cot across the way, wondered drowsily at the commotion outside his window.

Something of the change, of things to be, flashed through his mind the next morning, when, rubbing at his sleepy eyes, he glanced into the early dawn — too darned early, thought his pappy, trying with all his might to conserve what there was left of rest. There was a sign, a wooden portent, of flashing black and white, at the corner. As a matter of fact, the scene at Beach street and Cromwell’s lane, Vineyard Haven, and the time is a.m., Friday, March 23, today.

“Look, daddy; look what the sign says,” shrieked Arbuthnot, and daddy, as many an obliging, doting father before, did not get up to see. Instead he growled and rolled over, to get the light out of his eyes.

“J. C. Allen’s Skiff’s Island Office,” was read off in the clear tones of a childish voice. “Is it true, then, daddy,” excitedly, “there is no Skiff’s Island? Is it just a miss?” (Arbuthnot is only 9 and he lisps, so he cannot say “myth.”)

Awake at last, aroused by his son’s words, Mr. Appleby fell out of the bed. Reading the sign below, he shook his head from side to side, staggered by its import. “J. C. ALLEN’S SKIFF’S ISLAND OFFICE (that’s the way it is, all capitals, with an arrow pointing up the lane), and look, Arby, that must be Percy, the pet seal, on top!” As he finished, his voice sank to a whisper and Mr. Appleby went overboard into the deep end of a reverie.

“No, my child,” he arose at last to speak, “Skiff’s Island is not a myth, it is not the well known imaginative figment. It exists just as surely as yonder sun,” pointing to the east, “and the stars above,” swinging his other hand to the faint twinklings of the dying planets. “The island commonly known by that name may be just a heap of sand, the victim - sometimes afloat and sometimes submerged - of fortuitous wind and tide. But Mr. Allen’s Skiff’s Island Office of story and legend, is real and omnipresent, a fact out of his boundless imagination, as sure as the greatest or the least of his creative talent.

“. . . There, you see, from that brain.” Following his father’s gaze, Arbuthnot’s glance focused on a window in the Allen home, where the patriarch himself (just a motion picture, minus sound track at that hour) was adjusting his shaving mirror, all set to scrape down his lathered jowl.

Leaping from their wheelchairs and hurling canes and crutches to right and left, the venerables of Vineyard Lodge, I.O.O.F., engaged in a pitched battle in the basketball court at Oak Bluffs gym on Tuesday evening before 300 howling fans, while frantic residents besieged the gym doors with wild inquiries as to the safety and welfare of their grandfathers.

Highlanders and Lowlanders were opposed in a struggle that rivalled the famed conflict on the Heights of Killikrankie, and no holds were barred as the veterans met and locked horns in the struggle. Led by such valiant members as Norman L. Pratt and J. W. Woodard, who were supported by equally famed knights of the courts, including Harry Webb, Walter Besse, Walter Ripley and Jack Hughes, moves and plays hitherto undreamed of were introduced into the game, which resulted in a tie of 35 points a side by mutual agreement.

The game began with a graphic announcement by Dr. Clement S. Amaral, who, forewarned apparently of what was to ensue, entered the court wearing a baseball catcher’s mask, announcing the teams from their corners in prizefight fashion.

The first score of the game was made for the Highlanders by Walter Besse who, by reason of his unusual size, stood near his own goal and merely reached out and dropped the ball into his opponents’ basket, an unusual achievement, and one that drew wild whooping from the fans. Shortly after Al Holmes scored for the Lowlanders with a foul shot. Spurred to activity, John Phillips, knocked to a sitting position, shot from the floor and scored for the Highlanders.

In the second half, the venerables began to show signs of fatigue, and substitutes began to appear on the floor. Headlocks, ground tackles, punts for goal, and everything but baseball bats were employed in the tactical scheme, and the game ended with a tie score of 27.

Continued for a few minutes to see if the tie could not be broken, the weary gladiators staggered into line once more, and one heavyweight collapsed on John Phillips. It was counted a foul and gave Phillips several free shots. Then the score of battle was totalled up, and both forces drew off to repair damages and recuperate, filled with satisfaction and leaving a crowd of cheering hilarious fans.

Compiled by Hilary Wall
library@mvgazette.com