The knife as I remember it was a particularly jolly one with all sorts of instruments in it, tweezers and a thing for getting a stone out of the hoof of a horse, and a corkscrew; it had cost me a carefully accumulated half-crown, and amounted indeed to a new experience in knives. I had had it for two or three days, and then one afternoon I dropped it through a hole in my pocket on a footpath crossing a field between Penge and Anerley. I heard it fall in the way one does without at the time appreciating what had happened, then, later, before I got home, when my hand wandered into my pocket to embrace the still dear new possession I found it gone, and instantly that memory of something hitting the ground sprang up into consciousness. I went back and commenced a search. Almost immediately I was accosted by the leader of a little gang of four or five extremely dirty and ragged boys of assorted sizes and slouching carriage who were coming from the Anerley direction. “Lost anythink, Matey?” said he. I explained. “'E's dropped 'is knife,” said my interlocutor, and joined in the search. “What sort of 'andle was it, Matey?” said a small white-faced sniffing boy in a big bowler hat. I supplied the information. His sharp little face scrutinised the ground about us. “GOT it,” he said, and pounced. “Give it 'ere,” said the big boy hoarsely, and secured it. I walked towards him serenely confident that he would hand it over to me, and that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. “No bloomin' fear!” he said, regarding me obliquely. “Oo said it was your knife?” Remarkable doubts assailed me. “Of course it's my knife,” I said. The other boys gathered round me. “This ain't your knife,” said the big boy, and spat casually. “I dropped it just now.” “Findin's keepin's, I believe,” said the big boy. “Nonsense,” I said. “Give me my knife.” “'Ow many blades it got?” “Three.” “And what sort of 'andle?” “Bone.” “Got a corkscrew like?” “Yes.” “Ah! This ain't your knife no'ow. See?” He made no offer to show it to me. My breath went. “Look here!” I said. “I saw that kid pick it up. It IS my knife.” “Rot!” said the big boy, and slowly, deliberately put my knife into his trouser pocket. I braced my soul for battle. All civilisation was behind me, but I doubt if it kept the colour in my face. I buttoned my jacket and clenched my fists and advanced on my antagonist--he had, I suppose, the advantage of two years of age and three inches of height. “Hand over that knife,” I said.