“Too bad to stop right in the middle of the fun,” said Bobby Blake, a bright wholesome boy of about eleven years, with a frank face and merry brown eyes.
“Bailey’s got a grouch on this morning,” remarked Fred Martin, better known among the boys as “Ginger,” because of his red hair and equally fiery temper.
“I never saw him any other way,” put in “Scat” Monroe, one of the village boys, who had come down to the station to bid his friends good-bye. “I don’t believe Bailey ever was a boy.”
“Oh, I guess he was—once,” said Bobby, with the air of one making a generous concession, “but it was so long ago that he’s forgotten all about it.”
“Perhaps you’d be grouchy too if you came near being hit,” ventured Betty Martin, Fred’s sister, “especially if you weren’t getting any fun out of it.”
Betty formed one of a party of girls who bad accompanied the boys to the station to see them off. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, these girls had stood huddled together like a flock of snowbirds, watching the friendly scuffle and giving a little squeal occasionally when a snowball came too close to them.
Fred looked at his sister coldly. He was very fond of Betty, but as the only boy in a large family of girls, he felt it was incumbent on him to maintain the dignity of the male sex. He had pronounced ideas on the necessity of keeping girls in their place, and Betty was something of a trial to him because she refused to be squelched.
“Of course, girls feel that way,” he said loftily. “They’re afraid of the least little thing. But men aren’t such scare-cats.”
“Men!” sniffed Betty scornfully. “You don’t call yourself a man, do you?”
“Well, I’m going to be some day,” her brother retorted, “and that’s more than you can say.”