"I said a little something.
"'Well,' he says, 'I thought he was in the house by the bed when you say your prayer. An' I thought he was in church. But I don't think he stays in the dark, much.'
"'Mebbe you don't,' I says, 'but you wait for him in the dark, and mebbe all of a sudden some night you can tell that something is there. And just you wait for that night to come.'
"'That's a nice game,' says Christopher, bright. 'What game is that?'
"'I donno,' I says. 'Game of Life, I guess.'
"He liked the sound; and he set there—little waif, full of no supper, saying it over like a chant:—
"'Game o' life—game o' life—game o' l-i-f-e—'
"Just at that minute I was turning his little pockets wrong side out to dry them, and in one of them I see a piece of paper, all crumpled up and wrinkled. I spread it out, and I see it had writing on. And I held it up to the light and read it, read it through twice.
"'Christopher,' I says then, 'where did you get this piece of paper? It was in your pocket.'