“You've got to get two fingers under it,” said Old Hundred. He tried, but there wasn't room. “You fail,” he cried. “There's a point for me.”
“Not till you've made it stick,” said I.
We grew interested in our game. We threw the knife from our nose and chin, we dropped it from our forehead, we jumped it over our hand, we half-closed 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.