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Dylan pushed the disc forward and thought about how adept the boy was at draughts. “You know,” he said, “I think that’s three games in a row you’ve beaten me.”
    “You’re just letting me win, aren’t you?”
    “Not a bit,” Dylan protested. “You beat me fair and square. You know,” he said, “the Americans call this game ‘checkers.’”
    “Do they?”
    “Yes, indeed, they do. Americans are strange people. Everybody knows it ought to be called ‘draughts.’”
    “You beat me twice yesterday, Dylan.”
    “Well, it’s good for a fellow to lose once in a while, see?”
    “How can it be good to lose?”
    “Why, you learn things from losing, David. The Bible says it’s good for a man to lose.”
    David stared at the big man across the table from him. He had grown very fond of Dylan in the brief time he had known him, and he demanded again, “Why would it be good to lose?”
    “Because losing is a part of life. It’s how we learn to do things, don’t you see?”
    “No, I don’t understand.”
    “Well, the first time we played draughts, you and I, you lost. But you learnt something from losing. You learnt something in that game. Every time you lose, you ask yourself, Now why did I lose? What can I do next time to see that I don’t? ” Dylan paused and looked David in the eye. “Let me ask you a question, David. Would you rather go to a party or a funeral?”
    “I’ve never really been to a funeral, but I think I’d rather go to a party.”
    “Ah,” Dylan said and sat back in his chair. His glossy black hair needed trimming, and a lock of it fell down over his forehead. His cornflower blue eyes were wide-spaced and deep-set, and his wide mouth was able to express his thoughts simply by a twist. Now he smiled and said, “The Bible says it’s better to go to the house of mourning—that’s the funeral—than it is to go to the house of feasting.”
    “I’d rather go to a feast.”
    “Most of us would, but you don’t learn anything from partying. You learn from losing and having hard times. When I went in the Army, you think they gave me a soft bed and a maid to bring me food every day cooked especially for me? Not a bit of it, old man, not a bit! I slept on the floor, and I hate to tell you the things I had to eat. But it made a soldier out of me.”
    David listened intently then said, “Tell me a story, Dylan.”
    “Your mother doesn’t like me to tell you stories, at least not the kind I know.”
    “I don’t see why. They’re fun.”
    Dylan was not ready to argue the point with a ten-year-old. “Now, listen to me. We’re going to play a game, and you’ll learn something from it.”
    David’s eyes sparkled. “What kind of a game?”
    “Come over here to this bed. Get up on it now, boy. That’s the way. That’s the lad!” Dylan moved to make room for David rather slowly, but he pulled his feet in, tucking them underneath his knees on the bed. “Now, I’m the captain of this ship, my name is Odysseus, and you’re the crew.”
    “It takes more than one man to be the crew for a ship,” David protested. “No ship has just a one-man crew.”
    “Well, you’ve got lots of mates there. Look,” Dylan said, pointing to the empty space beside David, “there’s Oscar. See him sitting right beside you? Look, he’s got a black patch over his right eye. Probably lost it in a battle. His father was a blacksmith who made armor for kings. You see him now?”
    Falling into the game, David laughed and said, “Yes, I see Oscar.”
    “Well, look on the other side of him. That’s Punch. He was in prison for refusing to bow down to the king, but he escaped. He’s a good sailor now.”
    David said, “Look, old Punch has a long scar on the side of his face.”
    “Now you’re seeing it, you are.” The two went on, David’s eyes bright, and he laughed from time to time, but when his mother came in, he suddenly looked guilty.
    “What are you doing in that bed,