“Can’t—it tickles my tongue. Ouch! Look out! Your turn will come yet, miss.”
“Do anything I say if I let you up?” demanded Agnes, who had half buried Neale by her own weight in the soft snow.
“Yep! Ouch! Don’t! Play fair!”
“Then you’ll come right into the house and talk to me and Ruthie about that awful money?” demanded Agnes, getting up.
Neale started to rise, and then sat back in the snow.
“What money?” he demanded.
“The money and bonds that were stuck into the old album.”
“What about them?”
“Oh, Neale! Oh, Neale!” cried Agnes, on the verge of tears. “The money is gone.”
“Huh?”