“That’s all right, Betty,” he said. “You’re a better shot than I thought you were. Here’s your dime,” he added, taking the coin from his pocket.
“I don’t want it,” replied Betty. “I’m sorry I won it.”
But Fred insisted and she took it, although reluctantly.
“Too bad you didn’t make it a dollar, Fred,” joked Pee Wee.
“Couldn’t hit you in a thousand years, eh?” chuckled Scat.
“Oh, cut it out, you fellows,” protested Fred. “I didn’t dodge anyway, did I? You’ve got to give me credit for that.”
“That was pretty good work for short distance shooting,” remarked Bobby Blake, molding a snowball. “But now watch me hit that rock on the other side of the road.”
“Look out that you don’t hit that horse,” cautioned Betty.
But the snowball had already left Bobby’s hand. He had thought that it would easily clear the scraggy old horse that was jogging along drawing a sleigh. But the aim was too low, and the snowball hit the horse plump in the neck.
The startled brute reared and plunged, and the driver, a big hulky boy with pale eyes and a pasty complexion, had all he could do to quiet him.