In Westbrook Poglor's palmier days, before the shadow of Franklin Roosevelt darkened the horizon, the fiery columnist wrote an essay entitled "Are Wrestlers People?" In his customary forthright way, Pegler concluded that any resemblance between "genus home" and "genus grappler" was in no way the fault of the wrestler.

I have often wondered about Pegler. Nevertheless, his fascinating sociological problem came to mind last week when I noted a newspaper photograph advertising the appearance of a crew of professional women wrestlers. The picture of the star of the show, "Moolah, the Slave Girl," drew me irresistibly to the Cambridge Armory last Saturday night. Her "sultry and savage" antics in the ring drew me oven more irresistibly into her dressing room, after the show.

Instead of the hair-pulling, eye-gouging "wild woman" who had hurled her rivals into various sectors of the audience only a few minutes before, I found a short, wistful, soft-spoken young lady who seemed rather awed by the presence of a Harvard man.

I interrogated. Miss Moolah, as she prefers to be known, informed me that she was born in Georgia some twenty-one years ago, not, as the promoters would have it, in the "Zulu wilderness of the Transvaal."

"With twelve brothers I learned to wrestle pretty early," she said. "So it just seemed natural for me to turn professional."

"You know, down South, women's wrestling is awfully popular," the Slave Girl continued. "Down there I've had spectators throw lighted cigarettes at me. I don't really mind it, though. They just get excited and don't know what they're doing."

The Slave Girl disclosed that by virtue of a recent victory in Toledo, Ohio, she is now woman world's champion, a fact which her agent apparently overlooked in the pro-fight publicity. Wrestling has taken her not only to Ohio, but to Mexico, Canada, Cuba, Hawaii, Argentina and to most of the forty-eight states.

"I wrestle three or four times a week," she said.

"I also like to swim, bowl, and horseback ride, but my real hobby is collecting car-rings. Wrestling is just work."

The Slave Girl assured me that women's wrestling is a highly competitive sport. "Those punches really hurt," she said.

As I left her dressing room, a wrestling representative of the opposite sex confronted me. I recognized him as Buz Orio, a large, squat gentleman who had previously concluded a bout with another large, squat gentleman known professionally as the Demon.

"I'm a bad one," he said, with a wink, explaining why the crowd had booed his tactics in the fight. Old ladies had attacked him as he returned to his dressing room.

"This is a lot different from college wrestling," he said. "We've got to give the folks a show and we try to do just that."

"It's highly competitive, though. I'm sure the best man wins."

A wrestling instructor at the Cambridge Y.M.C.A., Buz said he has been wrestling professionally since 1931. "I've got two would-be wrestlers in the family right now, so I've got to save my money," was his final word.

I had no more doubts. Wrestlers were actually people. Having solved the problem, I wandered toward the street. On the way out, I caught a glimpse of Mr. America, dressed in an iridescent pink robe, with long blend hair falling to his shoulders.