She essayed to climb the fence again, and a second snowball—not quite as hard as the first—struck her right between the shoulder blades.
“Oh! you horrid thing!” exclaimed Agnes, turning to run toward the street fence. “I’d like to get my hands on you! I bet if Neale were here you wouldn’t fling snowballs at a girl!”
“Don’t blow too much about what Neale O’Neil would do!” cried a voice; and a figure appeared at the corner of the hen house.
“Oh! you horrid thing! Neale O’Neil! You flung those snowballs yourself!” gasped Agnes.
She was plucky and she started for him instantly, grabbing a good-sized handful of snow as she did so. Neale uttered a shout and turned to run; but he caught his heel in something and went over backward into the drift he himself had piled up at the hen house door when he had shoveled the path.
“I’ve got you—you scamp!” declared the Corner House girl, and fell upon him with the snowball and rubbed his face well with it. Neale actually squealed for mercy.
“Lemme up!”
“Got enough?”
“Yep!”
“Say ‘enough,’ then,” ordered Agnes, cramming some more snow down the victim’s neck.