“You throw!” he jeered. “A girl throw! Why! you couldn’t hit the—the side of a house,” he ended lamely, his invention failing.
“I couldn’t, eh?” cried Betty, a little nettled. “Well, you just stand up against that post and see if I can’t.”
Fred was somewhat startled by her prompt answer to his taunt, but it would never do to show the white feather.
“All right,” he responded, and took up his position, while Betty stood some twenty feet away.
The laughing group of boys and girls gathered around her, and Bobby and Scat began to make snowballs for Betty.
“No, you don’t!” cried Fred. “I know you fellows. You’ll make soakers. Let Betty make her own snowballs.”
“What do you care, if you’re so sure she can’t hit you?” said Bobby slyly.
“Never you mind,” replied Fred, ignoring the thrust. “You leave all that to Betty.”
The boys desisted and Betty made her own missiles.
“How many chances do I have?” she asked. “Will you give me three shots?”