"Quarter," said John, as he leaned on his shovel handle.
"Wished I'd made it thirty-five cents!"
Foot by foot, they cleared a path well around by the side of the house. The milkman, the butcher, and the gas inspector had each left heavy footmarks which were difficult to remove and made progress slow. At the rear steps, a huge drift met their gaze, and Silvey stretched his aching arms.
"What'd we say we'd do this for?" he asked again.
"Quarter."
"Wished I'd said half a dollar. There's a walk on the other side, too."
No skylarking now. Their muscles ached too much from the exercise to waste their energy in other channels. When the cut through the drift had been made, and the back porch and basement walk freed of the covering, Bill leaned his shovel against a clothes-line post, and surveyed the result of their labors malevolently.
"Next time we do this, John," he snapped emphatically, "we'll charge a whole dollar!"
But the mischief had been done. By the time they had been paid the well-earned quarter, not a house near them offered prospect of employment. And at the far end of the street, the "Jeffersons" were making a last reconnoissance before deserting the neighborhood for more fruitful fields of labor.
"Now see what you did when you shoved me into the snow," said John ruefully.