"Well, you didn't have to wash my face," retorted Bill. Secretly he was not sorry that the work was at an end. "Get your new sled and we'll go hitching. Beat you over to our street."
They dashed up the nearest private walk into a residential back yard, and dropped their shovels over the back fence. John wedged one foot between a telegraph pole and a picket, and drew himself up.
"Come on, Sil."
Silvey braced himself for the spring. A rear window in the house creaked open and a woman's head appeared.
"What are you boys doing?" called the shrill voice. They dropped over into the other yard, and John started to run.
"She's in curl papers," said Bill. "She won't chase us. Let's fix her."
"I'll call the police if you go through again," she persisted as the boys filled their hands with snow. John gave a few finishing pats to his missile.
"How'd you like to have her for a mother?" he asked his chum, as he drew his arm back for the assault.
A projectile broke against the window sash and showered snow fragments upon the untidy hair. A second went a serene way through the opening and dissolved in a blot of hissing water on the kitchen stove. The frame slammed to with a violence which threatened destruction to the window glass, and John grabbed his shovel with an exultant yell.
"Now run like the dickens!"