"Why," said I, scratching my head hard in a mad quest for a definition, for I couldn't for the life of me think of the answer to his question offhand, any more than I could define one of the elements. "Playing is—why, it's playing, laddie. Don't you know what it is to play?"
"Oh, yes," said he. "It's what you do on the piano—I've been taught to play on the piano, sir."
"Oh, but this is different," said I. "This kind is fun—it's what most little boys do with their toys."
"You mean—breaking them?" said he.
"No, indeed," said I. "It's getting all the fun there is out of them."
"I think I should like to do that," said he, with a fixed gaze upon the soldiers. "Can a little fellow like me learn to play that way?"
"Well, rather, kiddie," said I, reaching out and taking him by the hand. "Sit down here on the floor alongside of me, and I'll show you."
"Oh, no," said he, drawing back; "I—I can't sit on the floor. I'd catch cold."
"Now, who under the canopy told you that?" I demanded, somewhat impatiently, I fear.
"My governesses and both my nurses, sir," said he. "You see, there are drafts—"