“I don’t know how.”

“That’s nothing.”  The small brunette had the air of one to whom difficulties were unknown.  “I’ll show you.  Papa and I play, and it’s lots of fun—­only he beats me.”  She looked about for available material.

“You get that little box up by the house,” she directed, “and we’ll have that for the rock.”

Ben did as ordered.

“Now bring two tin cans.  You’ll find a pile back of the barn.”

Once more the boy departed, to return a moment later with a pair of “selects,” each bearing in gaudy illumination a composite picture of the ingredients of succotash.

“Now watch me,” said Florence.

She carried the box about a rod away and planted it firmly on the ground.  “This is the rock,” she explained.  On the top of the box she perched one of the cans, open end up.  “And this is the duck—­my duck.  Do you see?”

The boy had watched the proceedings carefully.  “Yes, I see,” he said.

Florence came back to the barn.  “Now the game is for you to take this other can and knock my duck off.  Then we both run, and if you get your can on the box ahead of me, I’m it, and I’ll have to knock off your duck.  Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”  And the sport was on.

Ben poised his missile and carefully let fly.

“He, he!” tittered Florence.  “You missed!”

He retrieved his duck without comment.

“Try again; you’ve got three chances.”

More carefully than before Ben took aim and tossed his can.

“Missed again!” exulted the little brunette.  “You’ve only one more try.”  And the brown eyes flashed with mischief.

For the last time Ben stood at position.

“Be careful! you’re out if you miss.”

Even more slowly than before the boy took aim, swung his arm overhead clear from the shoulder, and threw with all his might.  There was a flash of gaudy paper through the air, a resounding impact of tin against wood, and the make-believe duck skipped away as though fearful of danger.

For a moment Florence stood aghast, but only for a moment; then she stamped a tiny foot imperiously.

“Oh, you naughty boy!” she exclaimed.  “You naughty, naughty boy!”

Once more Ben’s hands were in his pockets.  “Why?” he asked innocently.

“Because you don’t play right!”

“You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!”

“But not that way.”  Florence’s small chin was high in the air.  “I’m going in the house.”

Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye.

“Are you very sorry?” she asked.

Ben nodded his head gravely.

There was a moment of indecision.  “All right,” she said, with apparent reluctance; “but we won’t play duck any more.  We’ll play drop the handkerchief.”