They are not lawful snowballs, but in a warfare of this kind they prove very useful.
By this time other boys had put away their bobs and sleds, also, and had hastened to wage battle. By this time, moreover, comrades far and wide were getting the news, and dropping chore and game were rallying to the scene.
Through yards, around corners, they sped; in ambush behind tree-box and fence they waited; into the ranks of the South Beauforters rained the missiles.
“Soakers” was the watchword—and with the slush so handy there was no danger of ammunition running out.
On a small scale it was like that memorable retreat of the British from Concord to Lexington. The South Beauforters were the British, and the others were the minutemen.
Big Mike and his gang tried to reply to the constant fire; one of their balls, thrown by Slim Conner, took Tom square on the nose as he incautiously poked his head above the fence. A yell of triumph arose from Slim and Co.
“Great Scott!” appealed Tom, ducking hastily, and touching his finger-tips gingerly to the wound.
“Let’s see, Tom,” said Hal.
Tom uncovered his nose. The left side of it was skinned!
“They’re putting rocks in their snowballs!” declared Ned. “Isn’t that just dirty mean, though!”