During the daylight hours of several autumn Saturdays there had been severe outbreaks of cavalry in the Schofield neighbourhood.
The sabres were of wood; the steeds were imaginary, and both were employed in a game called "bonded pris'ner" by its inventors, Masters Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams. The pastime was not intricate. When two enemies met, they fenced spectacularly until the person of one or the other was touched by the opposing weapon; then, when the ensuing claims of foul play had been disallowed and the subsequent argument settled, the combatant touched was considered to be a prisoner until such time as he might be touched by the hilt of a sword belonging to one of his own party, which effected his release and restored to him the full enjoyment of hostile activity. Pending such rescue, however, he was obliged to accompany the forces of his captor whithersoever their strategical necessities led them, which included many strange places. For the game was exciting, and, at its highest pitch, would sweep out of an alley into a stable, out of that stable and into a yard, out of that yard and into a house, and through that house with the sound (and effect upon furniture) of trampling herds. In fact, this very similarity must have been in the mind of the distressed coloured woman in Mrs.
Williams's kitchen, when she declared that she might "jes' as well try to cook right spang in the middle o' the stock-yards."
All up and down the neighbourhood the campaigns were waged, accompanied by the martial clashing of wood upon wood and by many clamorous arguments.
"You're a pris'ner, Roddy Bitts!"
"I am not!"
"You are, too! I touched you."
"Where, I'd like to know!"
"On the sleeve."
"You did not! I never felt it. I guess I'd 'a' felt it, wouldn't I?"
"What if you didn't? I touched you, and you're bonded. I leave it to Sam Williams."
"Yah! Course you would! He's on your side! _I_ leave it to Herman."
"No, you won't! If you can't show any SENSE about it, we'll do it over, and I guess you'll see whether you feel it or not! There!
NOW, I guess you--"
"Aw, squash!"
Strangely enough, the undoubted champion proved to be the youngest and darkest of all the combatants, one Verman, coloured, brother to Herman, and substantially under the size to which his nine years entitled him. Verman was unfortunately tongue-tied, but he was valiant beyond all others, and, in spite of every handicap, he became at once the chief support of his own party and the despair of the opposition.
On the third Saturday this opposition had been worn down by the successive captures of Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett until it consisted of only Sam Williams and Penrod. Hence, it behooved these two to be wary, lest they be wiped out altogether; and Sam was dismayed indeed, upon cautiously scouting round a corner of his own stable, to find himself face to face with the valorous and skilful Verman, who was acting as an outpost, or picket, of the enemy.
Verman immediately fell upon Sam, horse and foot, and Sam would have fied but dared not, for fear he might be touched from the rear. Therefore, he defended himself as best he could, and there followed a lusty whacking, in the course of which Verman's hat, a relic and too large, fell from his head, touching Sam's weapon in falling.
"There!" panted Sam, desisting immediately. "That counts! You're bonded, Verman."
"Aim meewer!" Verman protested.
Interpreting this as "Ain't neither", Sam invented a law to suit the occasion. "Yes, you are; that's the rule, Verman. I touched your hat with my sword, and your hat's just the same as you."
"Imm mop!" Verman insisted.
"Yes, it is," said Sam, already warmly convinced (by his own statement) that he was in the right. "Listen here! If I hit you on the shoe, it would be the same as hitting YOU, wouldn't it? I guess it'd count if I hit you on the shoe, wouldn't it? Well, a hat's just the same as shoes. Honest, that's the rule, Verman, and you're a pris'ner."
Now, in the arguing part of the game, Verman's impediment cooperated with a native amiability to render him far less effective than in the actual combat. He chuckled, and ceded the point.
"Aw wi," he said, and cheerfully followed his captor to a hidden place among some bushes in the front yard, where Penrod lurked.
"Looky what _I_ got!" Sam said importantly, pushing his captive into this retreat. "NOW, I guess you won't say I'm not so much use any more! Squat down, Verman, so's they can't see you if they're huntin' for us. That's one o' the rules--honest. You got to squat when we tell you to."
Verman was agreeable. He squatted, and then began to laugh uproariously.
"Stop that noise!" Penrod commanded. "You want to bekray us? What you laughin' at?"
"Ep mack im mimmup," Verman giggled.
"What's he mean?" Sam asked.
Penrod was more familiar with Verman's utterance, and he interpreted.
"He says they'll get him back in a minute."
"No, they won't. I'd just like to see--"
"Yes, they will, too," Penrod said. "They'll get him back for the main and ****** reason we can't stay here al1 day, can we? And they'd find us anyhow, if we tried to. There's so many of 'em against just us two, they can run in and touch him soon as they get up to us--and then HE'LL be after us again and--"
"Listen here!" Sam interrupted. "Why can't we put some REAL bonds on him? We could put bonds on his wrists and around his legs--we could put 'em all over him, easy as nothin'. Then we could gag him--"
"No, we can't," said Penrod. "We can't, for the main and ****** reason we haven't got any rope or anything to make the bonds with, have we? I wish we had some o' that stuff they give sick people. THEN, I bet they wouldn't get him back so soon!"
"Sick people?" Sam repeated, not comprehending.
"It makes 'em go to sleep, no matter what you do to 'em," Penrod explained. "That's the main and ****** reason they can't wake up, and you can cut off their ole legs--or their arms, or anything you want to."
