in such suburbanized country as we could achieve in
the neighborhood of New York. We had passed innumerable small boys and
not a few small girls, but save for an occasional noisy group on a
base-ball diamond none of them seemed to be playing any definite
games.

"Did we use to wander aimlessly round that way?" asked Old Hundred.

"We did not," said I. "If it wasn't marbles in spring or tops in
autumn it was duck-on-the-rock or stick-knife or----"

"Only we didn't call it stick-knife," said Old Hundred, "we called it
mumblety-peg."

"We called it stick-knife," said I.

"Your memory is curiously bad," said Old Hundred. "You are always
forgetting about these important matters. It was mumblety-peg."

"My memory bad!" I sniffed. "I suppose you think I've forgotten how I
always licked you at stick-knife?"

Old Hundred grinned. Old Hundred's grin, to-day as much as thirty
years ago, is a mask for some coming trouble. He always grinned before
he sailed into the other fellow, which was an effective way to catch
the other fellow off his guard. I presume he grins now before he
cross-questions a witness. "I'll play you a game right now," he said
softly.

"You're on," said I.

We selected a spot of clean, thin turf behind a roadside fence. It was
in reality a part of somebody's yard, but it was the best we could do.
I still carry a pocket-knife of generous proportions, to whittle with
when we go for a walk, and this I produced and opened, handing it to
Old Hundred. "Now begin," said I, as we squatted down.

He held the knife somewhat gingerly, first by the blade, then by the
handle. "Wha--what do you do first?" he finally asked.

"Do?" said I. "Don't you remember?"

"No," he replied, "and neither do you."

"Give me the knife," I cried. I relied on the feel of it in my hand to
awaken a dormant muscular memory to help me out. But no muscular
memory was stirred. Old Hundred watched me with a smile. "Begin,
begin!" he urged.

"Let's see," said I, "I think you took it first by the tip of the
blade, this way, and made it stick up." I threw the knife. It stuck,
but almost lay upon the ground.

"You've got to get two fingers under it," said Old Hundred. He tried,
but there wasn't room. "You fail," he cried. "There's a point for me."

"Not till you've made it stick," said I.

We grew interested in our game. We threw the knife from our nose and
chin, we dropped it from our forehead, we jumped it over our hand, we
half-c