"No, I'm all right," gasped Mink. "Okay I take these things, Mom?"
"But don't dent them," said Mrs. Morris.
"Thank you, thank you!" cried Mink and boom! she was gone, like a rocket.
Mrs. Morris surveyed the fleeing tot. "What's the name of the game?"
"Invasion!" said Mink. The door slammed.
In every yard on the street children brought out knives and forks and pokers and old stove pipes and can-openers.
It was an interesting fact that this fury and bustle occurred only among the younger children. The older ones, those ten years and more disdained the affair and marched scornfully off on hikes or played a more dignified version of hide-and-seek on their own.
Meanwhile, parents came and went in chromium beetles. Repair men came to repair the vacuum elevators in houses, to fix fluttering television sets or hammer upon stubborn food-delivery tubes. The adult civilization passed and repassed the busy youngsters, jealous of the fierce energy of the wild tots, tolerantly amused at their flourishings, longing to join in themselves.
"This and this and this," said Mink, instructing the others with their assorted spoons and wrenches. "Do that, and bring that over here. No! Here, ninnie! Right. Now, get back while I fix this—" Tongue in teeth, face wrinkled in thought. "Like that. See?"
"Yayyyy!" shouted the kids.