"Alfonso!" said Mary, "start some game!"
The biggest boy took off his hat and smiled his grave, polite smile.
"Si, Señorita!" he replied; "but what is 'game'?"
"I've been so busy with—more important things that I haven't thought of amusements," Mary explained to me, aside. There was apology in the explanation; I heard with glad ears. "Is it possible they know no games?"
"Why, I suppose they do, of a kind," I answered; "but it seems to me the chief lack of these kids is real play; they're all little old men and women; the kid spring is knocked out of 'em; they've lived in war and slaughter so much they don't believe in anything else."
"Well," said she promptly, "that's a poor state of affairs."
"The worst," said I. "What kind of nation can you grow out of children who have no fun? Their God will look like a first cousin of our devil. I did manage to rake some sport out of my time, or else I'd gone to the bad entirely, I reckon."
The color deepened in her face. She didn't have to be hit with a club.
"We wanted to furnish them a moral backbone, first," she apologized again. "It seemed necessary to give them some standards of conduct."
"I'd give 'em a good time, first—they're a hint young for standards."