“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.