“Yes,” replied Jim, coming nearer. “And let me tell you, Chucklehead, that it has been a remarkable storm. It snowed right in under my covers and piled up against my feet, and there was even a little mound on my brother’s head!”
“No!” cried the red-headed boy, in astonishment.
“Yes,” cried Jim. “And now we’re going to hang you out the window to get a little snow on you!”
“No, you’re not!” retorted Terry, bringing five melting snowballs into sudden view. “Here is where the artillery goes into action!”
Five snowballs sped in rapid succession across the room, three of them landing on Jim and Don. They managed to dodge the other two, and then, seeing that his ammunition was exhausted, they helped themselves to some snow from the window sill and faced him. Terry quickly raised a wall of bed covers before him.
“Don’t bother to make snowballs,” Jim begged. “I think we ought to do something useful with the snow. That lad’s face is dirty!”
“I see what you mean,” Don nodded. “It is kind of red. Too much of that red thatch on top of his head, and the color runs down on his face. Think we ought to wash it off?”
“Yep! Let’s get busy,” said Jim, earnestly.
“You keep away from me with that stuff!” grunted the boy, as they hurled themselves on him. But the two brothers tore down his cover wall and proceeded to wash his freckled face vigorously, not without damage to themselves and their pajamas, for Terry fought like a wildcat. In the midst of the melee the bugle rang out.
Abandoning their fun the boys began to dress rapidly, chattering away about the welcome snow. It promised them a variety of sport, in the nature of snow battles and sledding, and they were eager to get out and into it.