Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge
boy pondered the question. It had never occurred to him before. Why should he be called Blair? No adequate reason suggested itself.
"I don't know," he admitted.
The little girl wrinkled her forehead in thought.
"It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "Now, my papa's name is Baker, and my name's Florence Baker. You ought to be Ben Rankin—but you aren't." She stroked a diminutive nose with a fairy forefinger. "It's funny," she repeated.
"Oh!" commented Benjamin. He understood now, but explanations were not a part of his philosophy. "Oh!" and the subject dropped.
"Let's play duck on the rock," suggested Florence.
The boy's hands were deep in the recesses of his pockets.
"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."
The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.
"I don't know how," he admitted once more.
Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.
"Don't Mr. Rankin, or—or anyone—play with you?" she asked.
Ben shook his head.
"All right, then," she said obligingly, "I'll show you."
With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet in diameter.
"You can't cross that place in there," she said.
The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrier presented itself to his vision.
"Why not?" he asked.
Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't," she explained. Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added, "Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there. Anyway, you can't cross!"
Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a moment doubtfully.
"Now," she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you take the handkerchief." She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B" embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me before I notice you—you can kiss me. Do you see?"
Ben could see.
"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.
The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle—that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something—back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.
"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it."
"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"
Ben agreed to the statement.
An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.
"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl. "Papa never does."
The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.
Again there was a lull.
"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.
Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was not well.
"You're it, ain't you?" he hesitated at last.
This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire.
"Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden passion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"
Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethics of sex was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark