al of Smith major's approval, and
finally hinting that, fortified as he now was, nothing more was
necessary but a remittance of five shillings in postage stamps to enable
him to face the world armed against every buffet of fate. That was all.
Never a word or a hint of the personal tributes or of his appreciation
of them. To us--to Harold and me, that is--the letter seemed natural
and sensible enough. After all, provender was the main thing, and five
shillings stood for a complete equipment against the most unexpected
turns of luck. The presents were very well in their way--very nice, and
so on--but life was a serious matter, and the contest called for cakes
and half crowns to carry it on, not gew-gaws and knitted mittens and the
like. The girls, however, in their obstinate way, persisted in taking
their own view of the slight. Hence it was that I received my second
rebuff of the morning.

Somewhat disheartened, I made my way downstairs and out into the
sunlight, where I found Harold playing conspirators by himself on the
gravel. He had dug a small hole in the walk and had laid an imaginary
train of powder thereto; and, as he sought refuge in the laurels from
the inevitable explosion, I heard him murmur: "`My God!' said the Czar,
`my plans are frustrated!'" It seemed an excellent occasion for being
a black puma. Harold liked black pumas, on the whole, as well as any
animal we were familiar with.

So I launched myself on him, with the appropriate howl, rolling him over
on the gravel.

Life may be said to be composed of things that come off and things that
don't come off. This thing, unfortunately, was one of the things that
didn't come off. From beneath me I heard a shrill cry of, "Oh, it's my
sore knee!" And Harold wriggled himself free from the puma's clutches,
bellowing dismally. Now, I honestly didn't know he had a sore knee, and,
what's more, he knew I didn't know he had a sore knee. According to
boy ethics, therefore, his attitude was wrong, sore knee or not, and no
apology was due from me. I made half-way advances, however, suggesting
we should lie in ambush by the edge of the pond and cut off the ducks as
they waddled down in simple, unsuspecting single file; then hunt them
as bisons flying scattered over the vast prairie. A fascinating pursuit
this, and strictly illicit. But Harold would none of my overtures, and
retreated to the house wailing with full lungs.

Things were getting simply infernal. I struck ou