“Skeetles and Marcy are prisoners of the storm,” said Harry, with a grin. “Let’s give ’em a salute.”
He made a snowball and threw it at the corner of the window, which was open to admit the air. His aim was true, and the snow went through the opening, followed by balls thrown by Joe and Fred.
An instant later Hiram Skeetles’ face appeared, full of alarm, which quickly changed to rage.
“Hi, you, stop that!” he roared. “Stop it, I say!”
“How are you feeling to-day?” questioned Joe, coolly. “We thought we’d come over and give you a call.”
“Don’t throw any more snowballs. One hit me right in the chin.”
“And one hit me on the top of the head,” put in Marcy, who stood behind the real estate dealer.
“What do you mean by staying around this island after I ordered you away?” went on Hiram Skeetles, after a pause.
“Did you expect us to do any traveling in this storm?” asked Joel Runnell, in return.
“How far do you think you could travel, Mr. Skeetles?” asked Fred. “The snow in some places is ten and twelve feet deep.”