losed the blade and tossed it that way, and finally, when the
talley was reckoned up in my favor, I began to look about for a stick
to whittle into the peg.

Old Hundred rose and dusted his clothes. "Here," I cried. "You're not
done yet!"

"Oh, yes I am!" he answered.

"Quitter, quitter, quitter!" I taunted.

"That may be," said he, "but a learned lawyer of forty-five with a
dirty mug is rather more self-conscious than a boy of ten. I'll buy
you a dinner when we get to town."

"Oh, very well," said I, peevishly, "but I didn't think you'd so
degenerated. I'll let you off if you'll admit it was stick-knife."

"I'll admit it," said Old Hundred. "I suppose in a minute you'll ask
me to admit that prisoners'-base was relievo."

"What _was_ relievo, by the way?" I asked.

"Relievo--relievo?" said Old Hundred. "Why that was a game we played
mostly on the ice, up on Birch Meadow, don't you remember? When we got
tired of hockey, we all put our coats and hockey sticks in a pile,
one man was It, and the rest tried to skate from a distant line around
the pile and back. It the chap who was It tagged anybody before he got
around, that chap had to be It with him, and so on till everybody was
caught. Then the first one tagged had to be It for a new start."

"I remember that game," said I. "I remember how Frank White, who could
skate like a fiend, used to be the last one caught. Sometimes he'd get
around a hundred boys, ducking and dodging and taking half a mile of
ice to do it, but escaping untouched. Sometimes, if there weren't many
playing, he'd go around backwards, just to taunt us. But I don't think
that game was relievo. That doesn't sound like the name to me."

"What was it, then?" said Old Hundred.

"I don't know," I answered. "It's funny how you forget things."

By this time we were strolling along the road again. "Speaking of
Birch Meadow," said Old Hundred, "what glorious skating we kids used
to have there! I never go by Central Park in winter without pitying
the poor New York youngsters, just hobbling round and round on a
half-acre pond where the surface is cut up into powder an inch thick,
and the crowd is so dense you can scarcely see the ice. Shall you ever
forget that mile-long pond in the woods, not deep enough to drown in
anywhere, and frozen over with smooth black ice as early as
Thanksgiving Day? How we used to rush to it, up Love Lane, as soon as
school was out!"

"Do you remember," said I, "how we pa