I was getting ready to pull down one of the score of skinny weed-trees that grew in our backyard. My friend was beneath me, standing next to an empty paint tin. I jumped onto the tree and pulled it to the ground. The two of us held it down. He handed me the paint tin.

"You think the King's home?" he said.

I hooked the handle of the paint tin to the top of the tree.

"Wait a minute," he said. He straddled the tree, forcing the top branches into the ground.

"I'm the one'll get in trouble."

"He's not going to figure it out."