in their obstinate way, persisted in taking their own view of the
slight. Hence it was that I received my second rebuff of the
morning.

Somewhat disheartened, I made my way downstairs and out into the
sunlight, where I found Harold playing conspirators by himself on
the gravel. He had dug a small hole in the walk and had laid an
imaginary train of powder thereto; and, as he sought refuge in
the laurels from the inevitable explosion, I heard him murmur:
"`My God!' said the Czar, `my plans are frustrated!'" It seemed
an excellent occasion for being a black puma. Harold liked black
pumas, on the whole, as well as any animal we were familiar with.

So I launched myself on him, with the appropriate howl, rolling
him over on the gravel.

Life may be said to be composed of things that come off and
things that don't come off. This thing, unfortunately, was one
of the things that didn't come off. From beneath me I heard a
shrill cry of, "Oh, it's my sore knee!" And Harold wriggled
himself free from the puma's clutches, bellowing dismally. Now,
I honestly didn't know he had a sore knee, and, what's more, he
knew I didn't know he had a sore knee. According to boy ethics,
therefore, his attitude was wrong, sore knee or not, and no
apology was due from me. I made half-way advances, however,
suggesting we should lie in ambush by the edge of the pond and
cut off the ducks as they waddled down in simple, unsuspecting
single file; then hunt them as bisons flying scattered over the
vast prairie. A fascinating pursuit this, and strictly illicit.
But Harold would none of my overtures, and retreated to the house