The two crowds let each other alone, carefully ignoring each other’s presence, the only exception being when Bob dropped his tail between his legs, reminded of past insults, and raised the bristles on his back, and when Ned and Big Mike exchanged scowls of mutual defiance. In this by-play of looks Ned came off rather the worse, his eye still showing up, while Big Mike was apparently as good—or as bad—as ever.
The careful truce, however, was merely the calm before the storm. Big Mike and his companions were biding their time.
Much to Ned’s disappointment, the thaw merged into a Saturday of foggy drizzle, under which the snow silently ran away in water, instead of as silently, but more slowly, vanishing as vapor into the air.
Bound to have what few coasts might yet be found on the hill, Ned and Bob hastened there the moment that they had finished their early morning chores—“their” chores, for Bob, although of no real help in a manual way, always faithfully “stood by.”
At the same time with Ned and Bob, arrived on the hill Hal and Tom. Les’ Porter, Orrie Lukes, and three or four other boys already were there, and several more came within a few moments.
The coasting was miserable. The track was slush down to bare road, and from top to bottom the sled-runners tore through with a “squshy” sound. Ned’s clipper loyally set out to carry him as far and as swiftly as ever, but after a few trials he was obliged to retire it to one side, and take a seat on Hal’s bob.
So poor was the going, that when a party of South Beauforters appeared at the crest, they looked on for a minute, sneeringly, and then slouched away, bobs, and all, in the direction whence they had come.
“Good riddance!” scoffed Ned.
“Good riddance!” congratulated the crowd generally, following his example.
Bob flaunted his tail at the retreating backs.