Half an hour passed. The coasters, now about twenty—including girls and small boys—were, as it happened, for the most part at the top, preparing to plough down again along the soft course, when “thud!” “slap!” “biff!” into their midst tore a hail of snowballs, smashing on face and body and sled.
“Ki!” yapped Bob, startled by a stinging missile.
“Ouch!” exclaimed Jeff Patting, clapping his hand to his cheek.
Before the astounded coasters could look around, hurtled upon them another volley, escorted by a slogan of shrill, triumphant, vengeful yells.
South Beauforters!
That riddance had not been so “good,” after all. Reinforced, the party was returning, and pouring from the mouth of a convenient alley, down swept the enemy, to profit by his sudden approach.
Big Mike was there, and the Conners were there, and Patsy, as fierce as any of them, was there. South Beaufort had been wily enough to use the hill while the hill was usable; but at last, in this day of slush, it was free to throw off its mask and declare war.
The coasters scattered. The small boys, some of them frightened or hurt into crying, ran for home; the girls, with scornful looks, disdaining to hurry, withdrew in fair order to a safe distance; and the larger boys, diverging to different points of the compass as they essayed to reply yet bring off their sleds safely, sought here and there for refuge.
With taunting cries the South Beauforters attacked them viciously, worrying their every step.
“Watch out! They’re throwing ‘soakers’!” warned Ned, as, keeping together, he and Hal and Tom, dragging their bob, answering snowball with snowball and taunt with taunt, stubbornly gave ground up the opposite alley.